Flower Names for Girls

They practice every day at noon. Evan has a smoke as he watches them through the second floor window. Because they had none, he gave them all names and a story.

Daisy is the shy one. Her pliés are sloppy, but she’s been getting better these past months. He can picture her practicing at home, using her sink for support. She looks at herself and thinks that she’s not pretty or talented enough like Rose is. In the studio, when the teacher passes by, she always puts her head down. Evan always see the teacher’s finger flicking upward. He is telling her to keep her chin up, which she does, but Evan can tell she is just looking at her reflection in the window. She is telling herself that she is not pretty or talented enough.

Violet, on the other hand, hasn’t been improving at all. She doesn’t go to classes as much anymore. Violet looks at him strangely sometimes as she crosses the street, usually running late. Evan is worried that she might suspect him and break the illusion. He doesn’t want them to notice him and break their concentration. If they knew about him, it would ruin the purity of their dance. Violet isn’t pure, though. She must have a boyfriend that keeps her from practice. She comes from a poor family that wants her to dance, but she just wants to smoke and listen to music and make fun of ugly kids. Violet argues with the teacher. She doesn’t take ballet seriously and the teacher knows it. He has given up on her, would rather she didn’t stay and wilt the beautiful bouquet he has arranged in his studio. If someone nurtured her… Evan stomps out his cigarette and lights another.

Rose is the idol of the class, the older pupil that everyone looks up to. Fifteen or sixteen and almost a woman, she ties down her breasts. They’ve grown out more than she’d like and it gets in the way of her dancing. She takes good care of her hair. It shines gold in the sunlight. Evan imagines her as the head cheerleader and valedictorian. She is almost too mature and soon she will be too old. Her parents are trying to make her into something they never managed when they were her age. They push her hard to be studious, to get good grades. They won’t let her go out with friends. She is alone.

Evan pictures himself behind Rose, wearing black tights. He would support her from the shadows, lifting her high into the air. But nobody would notice him. They would only notice Rose and how beautiful and elegant she is. And he would support her, though nobody would notice. High into the air. And they would only talk about her and her beauty and her grace…

Evan thrust his cigarette to the ground without stepping on it. He tucked his hands into his overcoat’s pockets, pulling it tight on his shoulders. The cigarette sat on the curb, smoldering.

Immaculate Rain

December 1984: not a single cloud marred the skyline that noon summer day in Sao Paolo. But there was rain.

The favelados called it Imaculada Chuva, the rain being born seemingly out of God’s own eyes. For the first time in over a decade, the 95-year-old was able to bend his knees and kiss the muddy ground. The entire street knew him and they all rushed to help him up, thinking he may be dying. When they came up to him, they saw that he himself was crying. “Mary is crying for us,” he said. “The dead are weeping with forgiveness.” When Jose Carlos was young, he had led a sordid life. He led a bootleg operation 1920s, but there were rumors in the favela about his involvement with crime lords, that he did unforgiveable deeds on people just as poor as he is now. Jose Carlos never thought that God would offer a true miracle to the favela before he died.

Little Davi splashed his bare feet under the warm trickle of dirty water from the gutters above, unaware that his parents inside were making love after having a terrible fight over a broken dish.

The twins, Maria and Mariana, laughed infectiously as Maria fried plantains and Mariana sewed up her child’s torn pants. He had been playing with the older boys again and she was worried he was going to fall in with the wrong crowd.

The bare-chested men practicing capoeira at the beach stopped to squint at the rain falling from the sun. When the rain dried, the capoeira dancers at the bottom of the hill began their furious dance again, refreshed. Their lightning feet struck the air, kicking out rainbows over the hillside of the favela.

On that morning, the favelados said that all sins had been washed away, that they were given another chance and the favelados celebrated in the evening until their legs were no longer good for standing. When they woke up again, life resumed as it always had, though there was an exuberance in their eyes where, before, they were only the abused eyes of the desperate and forgotten.

Year of the Meteors

“Year of comets and meteors transient and strange!—lo! even here, one equally transient and strange!” ~ Walt Whitman

This year, a hale of meteors falls upon us like the retribution of those we’ve wronged, victims of genocide and spousal abuse alike. In Argentina, a man was struck down by a meteorite. It crashed through his ribs, cauterized the wound, killed him on impact. There was no sign of the rock; it had sunk into the earth. The Argentinians and much of the world took it as a message from God, that the man had been smitten.

For the first few seconds we met, all I noticed was her lips. They were full like two moons. I wanted to bite into them and suck whatever juices they held. The thought both repulsed and aroused me. I looked at her eyes and her hair next, and I was sad to find that she was very plain. Her eyes were gray and smooth like washed pebbles. No texture or depth to them at all. Her hair was coarse and unbrushed. The breasts weren’t amazing. If had seen any other part of her, I would have passed her by without another glance, but those lips…

There were cults. Lots of ‘em. As our neighbors drank the Kool-aid, the grape soda, and the Mr. Pibb, we laughed. We all laughed as the world came falling down. What else could we do? It seems like the messenger for catastrophe is always Chicken Little. Sure, the news is terrifying, but who can take the bastard seriously? The smokers, the drinkers, they all killed themselves slowly, while the “sane” ones bit the bullet faster than an Ethiopian sprinter with a jet pack.

She looked burned out, like she’d been running around all her life and finally had the chance to stop. The dust kicked up behind her where she walked as if some small hammer had just beat itself into the Earth. “Was that a–” I started. She only smiled, pushing those reluctant lips deeper into her cheeks. I must have been seeing things, getting all hysterical over nothing.

We watched the religious wars on the T.V. Christians and Jews shot at Muslims. Muslims shot back. There was nothing different about them from before, except now people were shooting each other over whose interpretation of the apocalypse was correct. It was just an excuse, like everything else. All they ever wanted to do was shoot at each other.

When she leaned in to kiss me, my breath caught. I’d always closed my eyes before when I kissed a girl–it just seemed polite–but with her I kept them wide open. She must have sensed I was looking at her because she opened her eyes too. Those eyes, that had looked so bland before, were burning. I could see the burning trees falling onto burning people running into burning houses. I pushed her away. Her laughter split her perfect lips in two, exposing the hard, stained teeth beneath. I backed away and I’m glad I did. A meteor the size of a Buick flew out of the sky and swallowed her up. The aftershock broke my ankle and knocked the breath out of me.

When the year of the meteors had ended, everyone had their stories, their physical and emotional scars. Bridget’s poodle mix–yappy little shit–went up in smoke while she was taking it for a walk. Doug la Pier’s death shook everyone in town when one rock took him right in the head while he was passed out on his couch. None of the drunks crashed on the couch after that. Instead of kicking their husbands out, wives held their men closer. Everyone had a story after that year. But even in the midst of all that craziness, I wasn’t sure if my story was even real at all. I kept it to myself.

Birds Don’t Fly Free

“Man, look at those pigeons. It’d be nice to be free like them,” Oz sighed.

“Those birds ain’t free,” Huggie replied. “Ain’t nobody free.”

“They can fly anywhere they want. I’d call that free.”

“Oz, you’re a damn fool. Check it.” Huggy reached deep into his pockets and scattered bread crumbs on the dirt. The pigeons swarmed around him.

“So? They’re hungry.”

“I put bread crumbs to the left, Birds go left. Bread crumbs to the right, they go right. No free will.”

“That don’t prove anything, man. They don’t have to take the crumbs.”

Huggy laughed. “They always do, fool! You grow wings and fly, we’ll see how far you get. You’ll be doing the same shit, talking the same shit, only down in Mexico instead of here.”

“Doesn’t sound bad to me. People can change, you know?”

“Yeah, if the man throws bread crumbs some other place. Problem is, we only got so many breadcrumbs and they all leadin’ right. Here.” He knocked on the bench. It sounded like a hollow door.

“Breadcrumbs. I don’t know what the fuck you’re saying anymore, man.”

“I’m sayin’ that everythin’s decided for us the day we born. We live in a prison the size of the world. Ain’t no way out of it.”

“I don’t want to listen to this shit, man. Ain’t nobody tellin’ me what to do.”

“Motherfucker’s deluded,” Huggy laughed, then punched Oz in the shoulder. “Eyes up. Here he comes.” Huggy whispered. He got up out of his chair. The pigeons scattered. “Trey! What’s up, my man?”

Trey’s eyes bulged like a fish. “Wait! No!”

Huggy and Oz had been sharpening their screws the entire day before. Each one slid into Trey’s neck like they were going into a corn cob.

“Motherfucker looks like Frankenstein,” Huggy laughed.

A crowd gathered around, clouding the scene in an instant. “Oh God! Someone help!” Oz yelled to nobody in particular. “This dude’s been stabbed. Man, somebody stabbed this guy!”

All the prisoners moved in to get a better look. Some of them laughed. Others were furious, but the guards came with their rifles and trigger fingers and nobody could do a thing without getting shot first.

“Back in your cages, you fucking animals!” the warden screamed. The men filed into the prison.

“Shouldn’t we get a doctor?” a guard asked.

“Ain’t gonna do nothin’ now,” the warden spat, watching Trey’s bulging eyes and his blood mixing with the dirt. “But I’ll tell you what. You get the doctor an’ I’ll call up the coroner. We’ll see who comes out on top.”

When the yard was clear and the guards had herded the men back to their cells, the pigeons flew back to the yard to finish the leftovers.

Match (Revision)

Day 1

I live across from a dying neon sign that says “seafoo.” It flickers through the blinds and makes my room a shade of green like in zombie flicks. Every night, I battle the rotten green with the technicolor madness emanating from Tru TV.

Day 68

Mike came by today.

“Long time no see.”

“No shit, dick! You broke my jaw! I had to have it wired!”

“Yeah, but I paid for it,” I tell him. I don’t see what he was getting at.

“But you broke my jaw! I just got the wires removed last week and it still clicks!” He had his jaw clenched, which was probably bad for it, but what am I, his mom?

“And now you’re here. What, did Carla kick you out again?”

“No! I just wanted an apology from you, dick.”

I look at Mike, his strung out eyes darting around. “The couch is all yours, man. You really need to find another girl, you know that?”

“Hey, you shut your mouth! Carla’s an angel, man! A fucking angel!” His jaw pops like a firecracker. “Ow! Fuck!”

I put a bottle to my lips. I’m not his therapist, either.

Day 2

When people around here go walking around in the evening talking to themselves, they never have a phone strapped to their heads. I guess we’re old-fashioned that way.

Day 29

Mike and Carla haven’t called for a while. I don’t know why Mike won’t answer my calls. I paid for his surgery and everything. He’s not a very grateful person. Holds grudges. Doesn’t live for the moment. That kind of guy. I think it’s Carla’s influence. She doesn’t like me.

Day 20

Mike and Carla came to visit today. They’re a match made in a meth lab and just as volatile. Carla goes straight for the fridge.

“The beer’s not for dragon ladies!”

“Shut the fuck up!” her squealing voice is consumed by the frosty caverns that house all my Dos Equis.

“Yeah. Shut the fuck up!” Mike hits me upside the head. It doesn’t bother me much that Mike hit me. I deserved it, after all. It bothered me that the bitch didn’t come over here and do it herself. Mike’s a tool but she uses him like one. Not cool.

Somehow, after a couple hours of drinking and watching T.V., we start commenting on the way that fat chick’s voice sounds on Operation Repo.

“She says stuff weird,” I say.

“She looks weird, too. Who cares, man?” Mike takes down the rest of my beer.

“Sounds like white trash. Ain’t she Latina?”

“You sound like white trash.”

“Hey. Fuck you.” I say. “I’m pure bred Chinese. Ain’t no white trash in my house.”

“Oh, right.” He and Carla look at each other and I know its trouble. It’s like two pieces of flint trying to start a fire, except imagine the flint is two idiots you know.

“Ah soo. Ching chong ping pong pow! Belly good. Me likey fat ratina. Likey berry much!”

I break his jaw.

Day 70

Carla burned down my apartment building. Mike must have said something wrong.

Days 21 through 67

Bought some more beer. Life is good. The room is flickering green. I turn on the T.V. and it feels like I’m winning.

Day 69

Mike is keeping me up all night talking on the phone. I get sick of “I’m sorry, baby,” but then they start shouting again. I can even hear her voice, she’s so loud. It’s shrill, cuts through plaster walls like a razor. I fall asleep to their shouting and even manage to sleep like a newborn. It’s comforting to know that, from a certain perspective, nothing ever really changes.

Day 71

The hotel I’m staying at smells like cat piss. There’s a red sign across the street with two Xs. I need a drink.

Teddy Bear Eyes

I waited for you.
~ Leila

The note was signed with a teddy bear face with a tear drawn below its raven eye.  The bear’s head crinkled within Liam’s grip. He felt the satisfaction of an eagle crushing its prey. His nails stitched a smile into his palm.

Liam thought about the times that he and Leila spent shagging on the carpet, screwing on the table, and fooling around in the bedroom. They used to go on long walks and talk bollocks about how they were going to live in a hot air balloon and raining cream puffs on the general population. The memory left a taste like acid bile in his mouth.

Liam tried to straighten the note best as he could and set it on his nightstand. This small orangish glow and the reflection off of his whiskey was all the light in the room. The bear’s black, crumpled eyes stared at him from under the lamp, looking demented and afraid. Liam offered the bear the bottle. The bear didn’t take any of the drink. Liam covered his eyes and wept.

An Argument Against Saving Koalas from Drowning in Swimming Pools

Somewhere, a koala is drowning in a swimming pool. His little hind legs are kicking madly and his little front paws aren’t strong or sticky enough to grip the side to pull himself out. It may seem a little coarse of me, but it’s not good for the ecosystem to save koalas from drowning in swimming pools. Have you ever heard of survival of the fittest? Well, it’s what Darwin said when he saw a koala drowning in a swimming pool. He said, “fifty bucks says that koala will never make it. Circle of life.” Then, Darwin continued sipping his martini. That man loved his martinis.

Now, you may be saying to yourself, “Can’t we just cover up the pools so koalas don’t fall in?” That is an option, but swimming pools are basically evolutionary thermometers. These watery death traps allow us to gauge which animals are fit to live. Birds are typically an evolutionary wonder. Even those who can’t fly can swim. Weaker animals that get caught in pools, like rodents or insects, are probably not meant to survive anyway. This is just nature’s way of weeding out the weak.

If you see a koala drowning in your swimming pool, don’t be alarmed. It will all be over soon. Try to occupy yourself with a game of racketball or croquet. If the waterlogged cries of the marsupial begin to sound too “human” and disturbing, you can play some board games inside or occupy yourself with some household chores. Just because a koala is dying in your swimming pool doesn’t mean you can’t be productive!

Remember: just because it’s your swimming pool doesn’t mean you have a responsibility for everything that climbs in. As long as you have the proper signs posted, you should be legally in the clear. If animals can’t read, then that’s just another evolutionary shortcoming they’ll have to learn to get past.

Flight of the Bumbleguy

“Tennis. Tennis,” the child begs, pulling on his mother’s skirts and you wonder why. You start to think about the back-and-forths of life. “Like chains,” the boy says, and you wonder if the world has gone mad or it’s only you. You’re heading in that direction like a bumblebee heading for a pollen fix. “It’s probably just baby babble,” you tell yourself.

“Are we gonna board?” interjects the Southern woman sitting behind you. When she says “board,” it sounds like it should have a “W” between the “O” and the “A”. That bothers you. “I thought it was an hour before we boward,” she says to her husband. You grip your duffel bag with your feet to make sure it’s still there.

Another child, maybe five years old in red coveralls, starts saying “Six six six” over and over while convulsing. You begin to doubt your mind again and stop yourself. He’s probably just bored. “Look, Mommy. I see a booger. I see them everywhere.” He reminds you of the kid from The Sixth Sense, only a fewer fries short of a Happy Meal. You continue reading Crash (the name doesn’t bother you as much as the fact that you thought it was Snow Crash when you picked it up) as people start lining up to get on the plane. You don’t see the point since they’re still calling for first class anyway. All this moving around is making you nervous.

When you looked at the flight information, you were sure you saw that the plane was a P-something. You’ve flown on everything that begins and ends with a 7, but you’re not sure about this p-thingy. It looks much newer than any plane you’ve been on and when the plane starts rolling down down the airplane driveway, it lights up underneath the wing like some kind of sci-fi hovercraft. The pilot tells the score of the Eagles game before you take off. You’re not into sports but you wonder how many people who TiVOed the game are pissed off about his loose lips (hopefully not sinking ships).

The woman next to you calls her boyfriend. She loves him and misses him. That’s the message. At least one in this couple, you think, is really clingy, but then you notice the three-pound engagement ring on her finger. It’s almost obscene how many diamonds are on that thing. You consider hitting on her.

The p-thingy’s gear sounds like an alarm going off. Just BRRT BRRT BRRT and then it launches. It’s not angled high enough for take-off. Likely, it’s going to crash and you’re going to die. Nobody else is panicking. Are they really all going to die without knowing? Maybe you should tell them.

When you look out the window and see that you’re not falling, you decide that you’re safe, but  you can’t relax. That girl sitting next to you is dressed so nice with a coat and all in black, always clutching her designer purse. You think about talking to her, but you don’t want to bother her for the whole rest of the flight if she doesn’t want to be bothered. Maybe you could act like a gay man. That way you wouldn’t seem like a creeper. Women love gay men. Especially drag queens. That host on the Travel Channel just loved that drag queen. But you don’t have any make-up to put on. That might be a little weird. Just have to have a little accent but don’t overdo it. It’s more about the non-verbal gestures.

But no. It’s probably just better to leave her alone. There’s a buzz in your head that tells you that you might be the one racing for madness. You ignore it and read your book.

By the end of the flight, the plane dips too much, not even jerking down at all. It’s too smooth to be a landing. And the air vents suddenly silenced themselves. You must be crashing. You look out the window. Still clouds. You look up and around the aisles but there’s still not a single person panicking. Maybe it’s just you. You’ll be fine. Silently, you turn off your light and stare out the window. Without the buzz of your light, the whooshing of the vents, or the babble of other passengers, you bask in the pure silence of the plane. Outside the window, there is blue twilight. Two stars glimmer across from each other. There’s a plane in between them, racing from one celestial body to the other.

Drifting Flower

Moyo doesn’t know why his brother, Fumai, gets to eat every day and drink clean water. Moyo hasn’t eaten since yesterday when he had some bread. His parents died of cholera and now his brother has cholera too. Moyo won’t get cholera. He’s strong. He’s faster than all the other kids and can outrun adults. They have long legs but they are lazy. Moyo’s grandmother yells at him a lot. Last week, he used some Zimbabwean dollars as toilet paper like he knows all the other kids do, but he’s the only one unlucky enough to clog the toilet. A lot of people yell at Moyo. He sometimes goes to the stream to throw rocks into it. He hasn’t seen Fumai in a while. The women at the hospital always kick him out. They say he is a thief. Moyo’s not a thief. Fumai never touches his bread, so Moyo helps himself. Why waste food if nobody will eat it?

Moyo stops throwing rocks.

There is a flower in the water. Moyo runs into the water and picks it out. It looks like a bloody claw. He runs to the hospital to bring a gift to the women. They will tell him how beautiful it is and let him see Fumai and then he will take Fumai’s bread.

Moyo’s pants dry out as he runs to the hospital. He holds the flower close to him like it’s his child.

“I have a flower!” Moyo announces, pushing it toward the closest woman.

“Oh, Moyo, you scared me, child.” She looks like she’s going to yell at him, but then her eyes get big like ripe papaya. “Oooh! Moyo, that’s a flame lily! That’s good luck, child.”

He pushes it at her. “You like it? Here! Can I see my brother?”

She breathes really big. “Moyo. Your brother can’t stay here much longer. The hospital’s out of food. We can’t keep anybody here anymore.”

“No food?” The flower goes limp in his hand.

“No, but go on up and take the flower up to your brother. I’m sure he’ll love it.”

Moyo does as he’s told. His brother looks worse he has a bucket by him that smells really bad. “I brought you a flower, Fumai.” He puts it on his brother’s chest.

“I hurt all over, brother,” Fumai says. Moyo hates visiting his brother. He doesn’t like how he looks or smells. He remembers when they used to race and Fumai always beat him.

“They said they’re out of food.”

Fumai doesn’t answer. He closes his eyes.

Moyo feels bad for his brother. He’s probably going to die. They can’t afford medicine and now they won’t feed him. “Grandma’s doing all right.”

Fumai doesn’t respond.

“There’s a place I know that has papaya. It’s picked pretty clean, but I think there’ some green ones still. I can bring one for you.”

Fumai nods, but it looks like it’s hard for him.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, Fumai. Hold on, okay?”

On the way home, Moyo thinks about his brother and his parents. He feels like something is clawing at his heart.

Match

Day 1

Around here, we’re pretty old-fashioned. When our people go walking around in the evening talking to themselves, they never have a phone strapped to their heads.

Day 2

I live across from an old neon sign that says “seafoo.” It flickers through the blinds and makes my room slightly green. Every night, I battle the restaurant light with the flickering madness emanating from Tru TV.

Day 29

Mike and Carla haven’t called for a while. I don’t know why Mike won’t answer my calls. I paid for his surgery and everything. He’s not a very grateful person. Holds grudges. Doesn’t live for the moment. That kind of guy. I think it’s Carla’s influence. She doesn’t like me.

Day 20

Mike and Carla came to visit today. They’re a match made in a meth lab and just as volatile. When they get into fights, Mike comes to crash at myplace. Somehow, after drinking for a while, we started commenting on the inflection in that fat chick’s voice on Operation Repo.

“She says stuff weird,” I said.

“She looks weird, too. Who cares, man?” Mike takes down the rest of my beer.

“Hey,” I said. “I’m Chinese. We’re all about inflection.”

“Oh, right.” He and Carla look at each other and I know its trouble. It’s like two pieces of flint trying to start a fire, except imagine the flint is two idiots you know.

“Ah soo. Ching chong ping pong pow!”

I broke his jaw.

Day 68

Mike came by today.

“Long time no see.”

“No shit, dick! You broke my jaw! I had to have it wired!”

“Yeah, but I paid for it,” I said. I didn’t see what he was getting at.

“But you broke my jaw! I just got the wires removed last week and it still clicks!” He had his jaw clenched, which was probably bad for it, but what am I, his mom?

“And now you’re here. What, did Carla kick you out again?”

“No! I just wanted an apology from you, dick.”

I looked at Mike, his strung out eyes darting around. “The couch is all yours. You really need to find another girl.”

“Hey, you shut your mouth! Carla’s an angel, man! A fucking angel!”

I put a bottle to my lips. I’m not his therapist, either.

Day 70

Carla burned down my apartment. Mike must have said something wrong.

Days 21 through 67

Bought some more beer. Life is good. The room is flickering green. I turn on the T.V. and I feel like I’m winning.

Day 69

Mike is keeping me up all night talking on the phone. I get sick of “I’m sorry, baby,” but then they start shouting again. I can even hear her voice, she’s so loud. It’s shrill, cuts through plaster walls like a razor. I fall asleep to their shouting and even manage to sleep like a newborn. It’s comforting to know that, from a certain perspective, nothing ever really changes.