| ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM |
| ***BIO*** Michael Shannon: I have a B.A. in writing, may pursue the M.F.A if, ...well, fifty thousand dollars in cash drops on my head. I've had work accepted by Enigma, Down in the Dirt, The Oak, Poetry Motel, AntiMuse, and a novel, entitled Janitor, possibly being released this Fall by Dispress (Dispatch). |
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| © 2006 zygoteinmycoffee Ink. |
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| In the Middle of It All |
| by Michael Shannon |
| He opened up the envelope: Thank you for submitting to the Esoteric Review. We're sorry, but we can not use your work at this time. Again, thank you for your submission and good luck placing it elsewhere.
He put the envelope and the letter in the garbage, opened a beer, and lit a cigarette. There was no chance for him. All those rejected poems and stories, the car payments and insurance, the American government, rent prices, prices of gasoline, inordinate prices for this, prices for everything. He needed a shot in the dark, a long shot, an opportunity brought by an angel, perhaps. Anything to get out of the swamp of despondency that was rising to his neck. But, he thought, there are no havens in hell. This is how it's going to be. No escape. Just the blues, always the goddamned blues. He opened up another envelope: The Drivel Review has read your work and is sorry to inform you that your submission does not fit our editor's needs at this time. Thank you for considering us and we hope to read some of your works in the future. He finished his beer and put out the cigarette. It was 11:00 a.m., and he knew it'd be one of those days that never endsa day that grips like a snake wrapped around the abdomen, choking all hope out of the respiratory system. He closed his eyes and wondered when it would all end all the madness, the rejections, the sadness. Then, of course, she had to resurface in his mind. That bitch. That girl. She. Her. The Ex. Back again like the common cold on a rainy October morning. He thought of her eyes, which were green like the jungles of Africa. He pictured the continuity of her legs, wrapped around his neck like a feathery boa. He heard her moans reverberating in his head, her promises of forever. Then, her face, soft and full of flesh like a little cherub in the museum of his mind. Her smell, too, like an orchard being washed by a soft summer rain. Everything's for naught, he thought. Everybody just builds you up to break you down. It's easier that way. It's easier to be callous and indifferent. Did Camus struggle like this? Did Creeley ever sleep on the streets? Was Bukowski really demented, or was it all a big falsity? Is everything spurious? Is everything really just a bunch of bullshit? He didn't know. There were no answers. All questions were insoluble. Life had gotten the best of him. Life had really got him good. He peeked out the window of his apartment. The streets were empty. He liked when the streets were empty; it made him feel like an asteroid had struck the Earth and he was left alone to fend for himself. It was a serene and comforting thought for him, being alone. Then, it happened. First he heard the heels tapping on the sidewalk: clink, clink, clink. Next, he saw the face, the green eyes and the prominent lips. Her. She. The Ex. Back. She was on the doorstep. The sun was illuminating the galaxy of freckles on her face. She was wearing an old coat that he had bought her many Christmas' ago. She looked better than she ever had, like an old sacred daguerreotype. She wore her beauty like a laurel. He knew she had moved on to a new man, a better man, any other man; it was painted on her countenance. He imagined her and her new lover wrapped tightly to one another, sucking at each other's naked bodies like vampires at a blood orgy. He winced and moved away from the window. He pondered what she wanted. Then the doorbell sounded. He didn't answer it though. What could he say to her, that he loved her and wanted her back? That he'd rip the fucking stars out of the heavens and implant them in her soul? The doorbell rang again. He slowly, cautiously, walked down the steps and to the door. He put his hand on the doorknob, but didn't open it. Can't I get a break in this world? Why does the Man above me have to keep pulling on my strings? I need this madness to fucking end. He opened the door. Her eyes glared at him with sorrow. It was obvious she had been crying; grooves of sadness were dried up on her face like an inverted rivulet. But, the tears made the reality of her pain look aesthetic. She looked like the heroine in a love story, crawling back to her lost love, entreating him for one last chance, one last go at their undying love. She pushed back a lock of auburn hair from her left eye and pinned it behind her ear. Then he saw it: the black-and-blue mark around her eye. But, that, too, made her look beautiful like some tragic protagonist lost in the pages of another Nora Roberts love novel. He wanted to take her in his hands, pull her close, feel her breasts against his chest, hold her, tell her that the future was theirs, that it'd all be okay, forever. But, he curbed all sentimentality and slammed the door in her face. "Mark," she warbled like a wounded bird outside the door. "Mark. Please open the door. Mark." He wanted her to just go away, go back to her own problems, leave him with his. "Mark," she pleaded. He walked into the bathroom, but he still heard her beseeching yells. He turned the water on in the shower and instantly the voice was gone. He sat on the floor outside of the shower with his head clasped between his hands. He knew why she was there. He knew her too well. Mr. Casanova had punched her and she wanted him to settle the score. She wanted him to hold her and make love to her under a frozen Fall sky. She wanted him to kiss her and swear that he'd never lay a finger on her. She wanted, at that moment and that moment only, to be loved by anyone. And he was the easiest stab at ephemeral love. He would always be there for her but not this time. This time things were different. An hour later, when he left the bathroom, she was gone. He went to the refrigerator and withdrew another beer. He brought the beer to his computer, stretched, thought, and began dancing on the keyboard with his fingers. The sound of the keys being hit bounced off the walls like a symphony of cacophonous, untuned instruments. He stopped, thought a moment, took a nip from the bottle, lit a smoke, and started smashing the keys again. Everything felt good again. Everything felt right. All his problems had vanished. Sure, he knew all the burdens would come crawling back again through his window like a spider in the night, but to be quelled for a transitory time was good enough, for now. It was just him and the words he was culling out of his mind's lexicon. But, something felt different this time; it didn't feel like he was writing another unpublishable story. This one would be read. Other people feel like this, he thought. Other people feel trapped like I do. This is real. It's not Hemingway bullshit about picturesque settings; it's pure sadness and hopelessness. It's about working in factories, working as a janitor, toiling, toiling, toiling and still not being able to crawl away from the taxes and rent and all the other byproducts of breathing the air in this damn plutocracy. Then, he knew he loved her; she, whose face came to his door looking for solace. And he felt ashamed that he didn't have the strength to comfort her. He was too in love with her. Him. But, he didn't think about her: her, who needed him at that moment. The afternoon drifted into evening and the evening drifted into the night, and finally his self-professed-opus was complete. It read: He opened up the envelope: Thank you for submitting to the Esoteric Review. We're sorry, but we can not use your work at this time. Again, thank you for your submission and good luck placing it elsewhere. He pasted the story into an e-mail, sighed, and sent it to Zygote In My Coffee. He opened another beer. The stars were shining like street-lamps in the sky, and the darkness enveloped him with soothing arms. It was going to be one of those good nights; he could feel it in the air. He took another sip of beer and closed his eyes on all the reality that tomorrow would bring. |
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| June 2006 |
| 64 |