Semi-Daily Scribbles

Highly intelligent, but with an attention span the size of a gnat, Gary was an outside looking in kind of guy. It had always been tough for Gary to explain why complex concepts were easy to understand, and simple tasks, like buttoning a shirt, made his head implode. At the age of six, Gary could correctly complete The New York Times Crossword Puzzle in under five minutes. At the age of 36, Gary couldn't read a bus schedule. He could read, of course, but comings and goings and whether or not any of it involved a bus was not kids' stuff. But one day, when Gary got on the wrong bus (and yes, wrong is open to interpretation), a happy accident happened. Gary ended up in a neighborhood he'd never been to before, although a hazy, purple streak in the late afternoon sky looked mighty familiar. Gary realized, as his stomach rumbled and cramped, he'd forgotten to eat and walked up the street toward the intersection. And then there she was, waiting for the light to change. The girl in his dreams. The one he wasn't supposed to talk about. Gary gave her a three second start off the curb, and then followed her for two blocks, where she turned the corner and entered, what seemed to him, a place that sold chicken. Gary took a deep breath and began to count to one hundred. He always woke up when he got to this part.

So many travelers pass through the property that Kayla hangs talismans in the trees to keep everyone safe. The more unruly guests are kept in check by Angelica archangelica tucked inside a wire mesh basket placed every two yards. Popsicle stick stars provide the dead with added protection. Kayla can take care of her own, very-much-alive self. Not all spirits who roam this plane are hell-bent on mayhem, though. Some just like to pay Kayla a visit for the lovely crape myrtles. On this warm and breezy evening, a shimmery blue phosphorescence winds around the stables and stretches out beyond the cotton.

Meg's favorite ashtray walked off with the lighter she stole from Vince. She figured it was punishment for picking back up a few bad habits. Meg needed nicotine stat and rummaged through her purse for matches. Out of the recent supply run, the Marlboro Reds were the least toxic item in the house. Meg procured certain curatives from lighterless Vince intended to lift the fog that had settled on her brain. Meg moved through her days as if wrapped in cotton batting. She couldn't breathe. Her eyesight was cloudy, hearing fuzzy, and her limbs were weighted down and itchy. And she was always hot and sweaty. Meg couldn't remember if the symptoms came on before or after the girls were taken away. It didn't really matter as her match search came up empty. Other than a cigarette, all Meg wanted was to retrace her steps and find where she'd misplaced her life.

Gary was convinced he and The Project were nothing alike. That didn't stop him, however, from moving forward with his travel plans. After weeks of calculations and careful observation, Gary came to the conclusion The Project was punctual and deviated little from the routines that made up any given day of one's life. Like clockwork. Gary liked that. There was also something about the cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes that made Gary trust The Project implicitly to perform at, and quite possibly above, his level of expectation. Gary was practically giddy over how easily the pieces were falling into place. Once he and The Project were on the road headed west, his family would get the message loud and clear what he thought of their handling of his affairs. Now there was only one thing left to do to get the show underway. The next afternoon, once The Project was in place, Gary would swing open wide that glass door and walk with head held high right up to the counter, where he would make his demands known.

I could find no other way to dig the hole, so I dropped to my knees upon the sweet decay of the loamy field. With head bent and shoulders ready to work, I scooped warm soil by the armful. Spoils were tossed to either side and I was soon penned in by mounds of steaming earth. I thought for a moment I need not exert my strength. This was only a dream. But the realm in which I dug made no difference. Buried beneath me was the cure to my comfort and complacency. I long ago traded my agency for the hallucination of wealth. The burn mark that appeared on the left side of my chest was the sign of second chances. Whether the treasure turned out to be a balm, a salve, or a poison draft, I had to drain the rank blood to be counted among the living.

The grandfather clock told Clementine she needed to set down the tablet, stash her phone in the sock drawer, and unplug from all her well-managed distractions. Though it was May, Clementine made a pact with herself at the beginning of the year to spend one hour a day in solitude. She'd yet to make good on her word. That was part of the problem. Just the word solitude made Clementine shudder. Being quiet didn't come easily. Being quiet with no one watching her be quiet seemed a wasted effort. Rhoda, Clementine's friend who worked in Accounts Receivable, suggested Clementine try meditation. Rhoda did not profess to be especially skilled in the practice, but her menstrual cramps were less severe, and she could read two chapters of a book before bed without falling asleep ever since she began to meditate on a daily basis. Rhoda thought it would help Clementine's twitchiness. As the long, harsh winter finally gave way to spring, Clementine decided the proper moment had arrived. She was going to quell the restlessness that made her a strong starter, but never carried her through to the finish. Too many stalled plans had become a very heavy chain to drag around from year to year. Clementine was also disappointed in the reflection that studied her each morning in the mirror. The woman on the other side of the glass had grown so old so quickly that her face had to be a trick of the light. Clementine feared she may have waited too long to polish and refine her undisciplined mind.