Oktober the Thirtieth: The Cavalry!

 Those very few who have read some of it will know, today's story is taken from the world of my WIP, The Fall, and Further Fall, of Miriam Bronski. But it's brand-spanking new, written just for today. That novel is 188,000 words long now... still, I might include this, if I can make it fit. Let me know how it holds up as a piece alone.

 Peace, Mari

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The Cavalry!

By Mari Kozlowski
10/30/2011

 When I get to her apartment she’s already wasted: drunk. And I mean literally stinking drunk since she hasn’t showered for god knows how long, her clothes are covered in dried puke and maybe snot, and there’s blood congealing on the right side of her face.

 The door is open, and her place is full of trash— as I go through there are containers of some smelly old Chinese food with ants crawling out of it tipped sideways on the couch and dirty clothes on the floor, and the chair and the kitchen table.

 Which is where I find Reese, sprawled on top of a Star Wars t-shirt and trying to drink from a mini-bottle of vodka, only it’s not working well since she’s holding it upside down.

 I don’t know which mess to clean up first.

 Probably Reese, since every second she’s still conscious, to whatever extent, she’s making more mess.

“Honey, it’s time to get cleaned up and go to bed.” I put my arm under her head and lift, gently. She’s skinny as hell, but when she’s drunk you’d swear she weighs 400 lbs.

“Nawww…” she drools at me,” We were’rer going out Miryum. S’dancing…”

  She pushes my head, getting blood on my cheek.

“Reesy cup, it’s time to get some rest. We’ll go out tomorrow, promise.”

 She lifts one leg, like she’s going to stand, then passes out, falling in a heap onto the linoleum. Slipping right out of my arms and whacking her head on the floor. Dammit.

 I can't get her up, and when I try to drag her by her feet, she moans, loud. So I find her phone after a ten minute search and call Angelo. He’ll be able to help, if he’s home. Only he doesn’t-- he won’t.

“Miriam, I can’t see her like that anymore. I’ve been through this for a year with her, trying to get her into rehab or something. I can’t take it, I’m sorry.”

“Ange, for me then okay? Not for her. Just help me out here.” I can’t believe he’s flaking out on us… what the hell? He’s in love with her, last I heard.

“Maybe you should leave her there to wake up in her own puke on the floor. Maybe one of these days she’ll get sick of it.”

“She looks like she’s been beaten, Ange--- that’s how not sick of it she is. I don’t think she’s eaten in three days or more, and her head is bleeding. Please…”

“I can’t, Miriam! I can’t do it. Don’t make me!”

 He’s quiet for a moment, and I let it stretch, hoping he’s about to break. But he’s closer to breaking down, when he finally talks again.

“I’ll call someone, okay? I’ll send you some help.” His voice is strained. Maybe she needs an ambulance, really. I don’t know.

“Okay. But tell them to hurry… I don’t what’s happened to her, Ange.” I hang up and find a blanket to cover her with, then start cleaning up a little. I don’t want paramedics or whoever seeing how fucked up she’s gotten.

 Which is stupid, I know, and enabling, and all those things you’re not supposed to be with an alcoholic. But she’s still my best friend, even if we live a 6+ hours drive apart and hardly ever see each other anymore. Even if she doesn’t remember it most of the time. Even though one out of three times I see her, I have to see her like this. But it was never this bad before—that’s the part that scares me.

 So I toss all her clothes in the hamper and throw out the trash, wipe away the spilled vodka and search for any half-empty pill bottles that might have contributed to tonight’s stupor. There aren’t any I can find, not under furniture or in her bed or the kitchen— nothing. That’s some relief. Then Alex walks in.  

“Where’s Reese?”

“On the kitchen floor; I couldn’t lift her.”

 He stalks into the kitchen and looks at her, shaking his head.

“Jesus Christ, Reese.”

 He sticks an arm underneath and gathers her up, and we take her to her bedroom, get rid of the sickening clothes she’s wearing, wash her face and tuck her in, sideways, so she won’t choke if she vomits. Alex finds a bowl to put next to her for the purpose, but we both know she won’t be conscious enough to use it.

 He leaves the door open halfway and leads me into the kitchen again, under those harsh tube lights. He doesn’t sit down.

“What happened? Did she fall in the bar?” He looks pissed, but not at me. I think.

“We never got there. I called last Wednesday to let her know I was coming in from Cincy, and she wanted to go to City Lights tonight. The last time I talked to her was three days ago, and it was still on then. I left her messages…”

“But she never answers back. I know.” He looks around the kitchen, searching it for something.

“Doesn’t look like she was on a binge,” he says, and I cringe, feeling like a jerk.

“I cleaned it up. It was disgusting; I thought Ange was sending an ambulance.”

“Do you think she took anything besides booze, Miriam?”

 I shake my head. “I couldn’t find anything. I just think she’s been living on vodka for a while. Before that her last meal was greasy egg foo young.”

 He smiles, and instantly I feel a little less pressure. I could have died when he walked in, but here he’s handling it all, taking care of things. Like always.

“She loves that crap,” he says, “and it really is: the only Chinese place that’ll deliver here is run by a Jewish guy from NYC, and he just can’t keep a decent cook. She loves it, though.”

 My ex-fiancé sits down in his sister’s kitchen and looks up at me, and it’s hard not to melt. We haven’t seen each other in two years.  

“What should we do? Get her stomach pumped?” I sit down, too. It’s easier to be across from him than next to him, still.

“From the look of the shirt she had on, I’d say no.” He stops smiling, and it’s a relief. His smiles always got me.

“I’ll stay with her, Miriam. You can go… I’ll let you know that she wakes up tomorrow.”

“Why don’t make some coffee?” I say. I get up and start looking for what I need, and he sits there, watching me.

“That’d be nice.” he says.

  From the bedroom, we both hear Reese begin to snore, loud. And we laugh together, and make coffee.

Oktober The Twenty-Ninth: The Falling Season

 Revisiting an earlier story here, Seeds on the Outside, for a second installment. I would like to think it stands on its own as flash fiction; on the other hand, I'm almost sickeningly comfortable in the mind of this character. I could see a longer series of connected stories growing from the Seeds.
 I took Seeds to my writing/critique group meeting and got some helpful feedback, there. I may take this one as well.
 Two more days, two more stories to go! Please do feel very free to leave commentary/critique, or just a hello. I'll be checking this site even during NaNoWriMo.

 Peace, Mari

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The Falling Season

By Mari Kozlowski
10/29/2011

 There are five blue jays on the maple tree outside my Aunt’s house, and one rabbit hiding in the bushes.

 He isn’t hiding from me; he couldn’t see me in here watching him. He could be hiding from the blue jays, since blue jays are loud and annoying even though their feathers look pretty, except that I know he isn’t because he was hopping around the dead peony bushes when the blue jays came into the yard and he didn’t jump or run away, even when they squawked.

 I guess he’s hiding from a dog in the yard next door. The dog keeps barking. The rabbit is completely still, but I saw when he hid behind the weeds and the tip of his ear never moved, so I know he’s there.

 If he knew my uncle was in the house, he would be scared of us. My uncle hunts rabbits and deer and shoots them and then gets their guts taken out and their fur torn off, so he can eat them. I would never eat a rabbit because rabbits are interesting to me since I read Watership Down; but I did have a piece of a deer my uncle shot once and it tasted good, like the Swiss steak my Mom used to make before she was killed, but after I ate it I thought about how the deer and goats in the zoo sniffed me and stuck their noses in my pockets, and I cried. Then I decided not to eat animals anymore, not even Swiss steak.

 And my Mom said I was being ridiculous and that I loved fried chicken too much to stop eating it, so I stopped eating anything until she told me she wouldn’t make fried chicken ever again or make me eat any animals.  

 So I started eating all vegetables and fruit and cheese and bread and desserts, and I thought about not eating eggs anymore because they’re almost chickens; but Mom told me that the eggs we get at the store aren’t fertilized so they couldn’t ever become chickens. And she reminded me that pancakes and French toast both have eggs in them. So I told her I would still eat eggs, only now it doesn’t matter because she won’t have to cook for me anymore since she is dead and we buried her in the cemetery by the highway this morning.

 I’m staying in the back of the house by the two big windowed doors my Mom called French doors, which I don’t know why they are called that since we don’t live in France, we live in Ontario, Canada, in Grimsby; but you wouldn’t call them Grimsby doors since all the doors that exist here could be called that, no matter what kind of doors they are, single or double or windowed or screen. When I asked Mom once when we visited here why the doors were called that, she didn’t know and she told me to look it up in the encyclopedia when we got home, but our set of encyclopedias is pretty stupid and bad and it wasn’t in there anywhere.

 I like these doors, no matter why they’re called French. I can see the garden from here, and there is lots of sunlight, and since I came and stood near the windows looking outside no one is bothering me anymore like they did all morning while I was checking out my Mom’s casket. I was trying to figure out if she was really in there, because it’s kind of short looking and my Mom was tall. But people kept coming up to me and trying to hug me and cry on me, which I didn’t like.

 So when we came home in the special long black cars they ride you in for funerals and weddings, I took a plate of food and brought it back with me, and now I can watch the leaves falling and eat cheese cubes and be alone without my Mom’s cousins dripping tears and getting lipstick and face-colored powder on me. Plus I hate when they ask how tall I am now. I’d rather watch the rabbit and think about what kind of food he’s looking for under the maple leaves lying on the grass.

 My Mom hated when our tree’s leaves dropped off and we had to rake them up; she liked Spring, when the tree got buds and flowers on them and started to get green again. She said it was the Growing season, the best season, but I told her I liked the red and yellow leaves in their piles better, in the Falling season.  

Oktober the Twenty-Eighth: Weather or Not

Snow yesterday, in Buffalo. Okay, it was mixed with rain, melted when it hit the ground and didn't last for more than a few minutes. But it was there, with all the bumming power that early snow contains.
Let's say the story well caught a chill.

NOTE:  Just a few days left in Oktober, so what will happen here? Well, I'll be doing NaNoWriMo there.

 My plan for Oktober Ski is to come back in December and start revising the existing stories, with notes. Should be a cool process, and I will surely enjoy any helpful comments. I'll be leaving the site up at least till the end of the year, but more likely continuing into late January to get everything done. Then, we'll see if there's more use to be had. I may run it on slow fiction till next Oktober; details will be posted, I promise.
 So after Oktober 31st, posts here will be rare or non-existent for a month. It'll give ya time to catch up on the stuff you didn't read.

  Peace, Mari

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Weather or Not

By Mari Kozlowski
10/28/2011

 If the weather was a conscious thing, an entity that delighted in throwing itself through the space of a planet’s skies and waters, you could see it enjoying the unexpected snowstorm in October that broke the still-green branches from a thousand trees, the heatwave in February melting polar ice, the upheaval of a hurricane. You’d know that it gloried in the monsoon, you’d feel its warm pleasure in the crack and tremor of the earthquake. You could see that the downward flow of glowing autumn leaves followed a pattern that was not random, after all.

 If the weather of your world was alive in a way you hadn’t imagined before and you came to know that, what would you do? How would the knowledge change your perception of your own life’s value, the value of animals and plants and places you relied on? Would it make you listen to them harder?

 Would you still believe in God? Would you still think God intercedes for you when the storm rages, ready to blow off your doors?

 Would you start listening for laughter in the tornado? Would you begin to hear harsh whispers as ice thickens on the roof of your car overnight?

 Would you hide inside everyday, hoping not to be noticed?

Oktober the Twenty-Seventh: Specialty of the House

If it seems like I'm spending alot of time writing about bars, that's because my new NaNoWriMo project takes place in and around a bar, and I'm getting into that mindframe. Or would be, if I could get me a Manhattan.

 Peace, Mari

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Specialty of the House

By Mari Kozlowski

10/27/2011

 The pool of beer on the wood in front of him was widening, and he grabbed a thick rag from under the bar to sop it with— it took just one good, slow wipe. He cleaned the last traces away with a damp cloth and set the clumsy guy up with a fresh microbrew.

“There you go.” He was down at the other end before the guy even noticed or thanked him. Happy Hour was hopping.

“What can I get for you lovely ladies this evening?” he schmoozed.

 The gaggle of girls came in on Tues. and Thurs. after their spinning class, to undo all the calories burned with chocolate martinis and fried ravioli. Now they heaved their chests onto the bar and gave him flirty smiles. He’d wanted to fuck one of them for months, but it wasn’t a good idea. Or so he told himself when they left, every week.

“Something spicy, John?” said the tall one; Sheryl, he thought. Her tits were incredible.

“I got something spicy for you, sure” he said, and the girls all laughed and moved like they’d been tickled. They loved to torture him.

“How about a Cajun martini?” he offered, and showed them the jar of whole jalapenos the drink got garnished with. All four of them shook their heads.

“Oh, wouldn’t you like to see us try to choke one of those down…” the little blonde one said.

“They do have a certain shape, now you mention it,” he said, “but trust me, mine is easier to swallow.”

"Whoo! Listen to this, huh, Sheryl?” the blonde one said. “I bet yours is longer and redder, too, right, John?”

“I don’t like to brag. Let’s just say it’s twice as hot but it won’t make you cough afterwards.”

“Why don’t you set us up with those nice mango margaritas, instead?” Sheryl said.

“Cowards.” John got to work, tossing booze and sour mix into the blender. Maybe he’d stepped out a little too far, but they’d forget it by their third drink.

Oktober the Twenty-Sixth: Cat in Mouse

 The title above is a working title; well, they all are, but this one more so. I have no idea where this ghost story is going, and I'm bummed that it's not done. But it's something, it's up here, and so far it's okay. Running towards the finish line of November 1st, we're slacking off a little here in practice. Better tomorrow!

 Peace, Mari

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Cat in Mouse

By Mari Kozlowski
10/26/2011

 One of the things you don’t expect to happen when you put down your aged tabby cat, out of love and respect for his pain and dignity, is for him to come back and haunt you every day and night.

 Sorkin wasn’t the best at living up to expectation, though… why should he be good at dying up to it?

 It took me a few days to catch on. A few days of having the empty food bowl I couldn’t bear to remove, at first, knocked over or upended. You see that in the morning when you’re too bleary to note the important details and you think you knocked it with your own foot, or the hubby did, or anything other than, “Hey, maybe my dead cat is trying to tell me something.”

 The splashing sounds I kept hearing were easy to ignore, too. I live with the world’s cleanest man: Bertram typically washes his hands a hundred times a day, and that’s when he’s not cooking dinner. The nights he cooks, you can add forty washings to the total.

 How could I guess that someone I had paid to have a hypodermic needle full of heart-stopping drugs stuck into had come back, thirsty as hell? I don’t think I was being dim, just rational.

 That stopped when Sorkin jumped on the bed the third night. He’d always slept on top of my feet in cold weather, and I loved having that extra layer of warmth on top of my blankets. Only this time, the layer wasn’t supposed to be there.

“Bert, get your feet off me. Too heavy.” I was almost asleep when I felt the pull of weight near my toes. Bert mumbled and rolled further away from me. I scrunched deeper into my downy cocoon. Then felt a scratch.

“Honey” I moaned to Bert, “your toenails are sharp… they’re killing me. Would you please move your feet??? I have an early day tomorrow.”

 This time Bert didn’t even mumble an answer. He was out, zonked, I could see. I lifted my head to check if there was a belt buckle or a blanket tag that was sticking me, and there was Sorkin, sitting on feet, kneading them a little with his paws. I reached down the bed to pet him and stopped with my hand just above his head.

“Sorkin?” I whispered. “Sorkie???”

 He looked at me, closed his eyes, and curled into a cat ball. His usual sleep position.

 I laid my head back into the pillow and closed my eyes, sure I was dreaming. And in a few moments I was. 

Oktober the Twenty-Fifth: Patterns

Patterns

By Mari Kozlowski
10/25/2011


White roses in the heel of a shoe... bland and matrimonial, maybe, but it works. Interesting, putting those pumps together with the trippy orange shorts. I could go somewhere with that..

"Malyssa, have you FINISHED that goddam basting?"

 "Two minutes, Elena."

"Make it one or you're fired. I'm sick of your shit."

 I could walk out, and she'd be fucked with her second biggest client. Fucked.

 "Here you go. Jersey isn't behaving..."

 "Excuses? Get going on the lace inserts for the long skirt. I need it in half an hour for a private showing, and Zubari screwed it up. She's history here."

 I'd never get my own label, if I fucked her over. She gets to treat me like a slave, because I want what she has. She does.

 She does for now.

Oktober the Twenty-Fourth: Light Footed

Sliding in under the finish line, here, at just midnight. I think you can tell, atfer reading this, I could use a
cocktail.

Peace, Mari

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Light Footed

By Mari Kozlowski
10/24/2011

 Mack floats over to the bar and I get ready. New joke, new drink, gin based. I slide the glass in front of him. His hands are shaking a little tonight, but he manages to get it up to his mouth okay.

“Hmm.”

 The Cure song he put in on the juke starts playing, crazy loud. A half dozen couples or so get up to dance.

 “Not sure about this mix, Anna.”

 Another sip, a little drip on his chin. I give him a napkin and he wipes it off, slow. Too slow.

 "I know you’re shaking Mack, so cut out trying to hide it. Did you take your meds today?”

 He shakes his head no, and tries another little sip. His face is somewhat pale.

“I brought them for here, though. I was afraid I might choke, so I didn’t take them alone.”

“Great. Then give me that.”

 I try to grab the frothy green drink away, but he holds onto it with unexpected strength.

“Fine. Then what do you think? Should I bother naming it?”

 Mack smiles, showing his bad gums. And takes a long sip.

“It’s good. Really. The perfect drink for a fag bar.”

 He sets down the glass, and I see the tremor. He can barely hold the fucking thing unless it’s being pulled away from him.

“It’s needs a name,” he says, eyeing it.

 The froth is dying down, making the bright emerald tone look deeper, now. Sort of luminous pine. Pretty.

“I know,” he says, “SuperQueer Soda!”

 We both burst out laughing. He takes another sip, and I top off his sidecar glass with some more from the shaker. And pour one for myself, since technically he isn’t supposed to have booze at all. It’s astringent, at first, but the taste grows on you.

“How about The Green Dragon?” I ask.

 He rolls his pretty eyes at me.

“Way too Bilbo Baggins. Though he was suspiciously happy as a bachelor in the old Shire.”

“And friends with all his young cousins, too.”

 “Makes you wonder if there’s a good reason Gandalf’s fireworks were legendary…”

 And I do a spit take, as they say. 

“Oh, shit. You almost made me piss myself, Mack.”

 I wipe my mouth, now, and pour us off the last of my new concoction. Which still doesn’t have a name.

“Heard a new one this morning at Denny’s,” I say, and he motions me to go on while drinking his green stuff.

“How many homophobes does it take to screw in a light bulb?”

 Another Cure song comes on, of course. Mack moves a little to the rhythm and thinks for a second. The music is so loud I barely hear his answer.

“I give up. How many?”

 I lean in so I can yell in his ear.

“Two,” I yell, “One to hold onto the socket while the other guy does the job, and one to tell the first guy he’s not gay if he wasn’t the one screwing it in.”

 I laugh, Mack doesn’t. A big sweaty guy puffs down onto the barstool next to him and signals me over.

“Honey, that old chestnut is older than my chestnuts. And they’ve been roasted for years.”

“Shoulda known you’d heard it before.”

 I sigh and go to take care of Sweaty Guy, then come back. Mack is on his last sip, and there’s about to be waves of thirsty dancers coming at me. Pretty good for an off night.

“We still need to name this drink.” I tell him. “What about Lime Loafer?”

“There isn’t enough lime for that.” Mack says. “Besides, it’s shouldn’t have a silly name. It’s too good.”

 Reprieve! An Alice in Chains hit, and everybody but Mack is dancing, even Sweaty Guy.

“Thanks, Mack, I’m touched.”

 He looks at me, serious.

“I mean it. It needs the right name— something pretty, and a little mysterious. It’s soft, but it burns nice in your throat after a while.”

“Not too much bitters?

“No. Can I have some water for my pills before you get too busy too watch?”

 He pulls out his six bottles and takes the pills he needs, one by one. I give him the last green sip of my drink to wash away the taste and relax his throat again.

“It reminds me of the smell of the woods when I was kid,” he says, “When I used to run for hours, trying to burn off my sex drive.”

“So maybe we should name it Light in the Loafers.”

“What is your loafer obsession today?” he moans. Then snaps his fingers.

“Got it! Your homo-feeble rambling inspired me.”

“Well?”

 He’s gonna draw it out. And Sweaty Guy is on his way back, with a friend in tow.

“Light-Footed.” he purrs, smiling ear to ear.

“That’s good,” I admit, “I think that’s the one.”

“Then you should pay me another shaker full.”

 I start moving towards Sweaty Guy and Co. Fighting with Mack over booze is a pain. 

“You don’t think that’s too much, for the night?”

 Mack sighs and leans over the bar.

“Everything is too much. When you have cancer, then you can tell me not to medicate myself if you want.” 

“Give me a sec,” I tell him, and finish pouring the shots for Sweaty Guy. Who looks very interested in what I mix in the shaker afterwards.

“Hey, what is that?” he asks, and Mack turns to him, proud as shit.

“She named it after me, in honor of my youthful urges.”

 I pour a shot of it for SG and his gal pal to taste, and they dig it.

“Good for dancers,” I tell them, “I call it Light Footed.”

 I think it’s going to be a hit.