Gladys

Gladys stood by the living room window waiting for him to come home. 

Her eyes scanned the front yard and she sighed. The lawn was overgrown again. She never did like it when the grass grew too high. She would have to ask the neighbor’s boy to come over and take care of it. She hoped five dollars would do. 

When would he come home? She listened for the sweet and familiar melody of his whistling, but there was nothing. Just a dull and monotonous silence. 

Gladys looked out into the yard again. Her mind started pulsing, exploring the thick towers of green. She started to dizzy herself and looked away.

No, it was better when the lawn was neat and tidy.  She’d call the boy right now. Maybe she’d give him a few extra dollars if he’d take some boxes to the curb. She picked up the phone and briskly dialed next door.

A young girl picked up the phone, “Hello?” The child’s voice was like song, round and musical and innocent.

“Rachel, honey. It’s Mrs. Patterson. Is your Mom home?”

“Oh, Mrs. Patterson.” There was an awkward silence. Gladys hated silence.

“Well? Is she home?” 

“No, no, she’s not home.” There was no music in the child’s voice any longer.

“Of course. What about your brother?”

“No.”

“Do you know when they’ll be back, Rachel? It’s very simple really. I just need a favor.”

“I don’t understand what you mean, Mrs. Patterson.”

Gladys put her hand to her head; the pulsing beat had started again, more intense than before. “It’s very important I speak to your mother.” 

There was a silence on the other end. “Rachel? Are you still there? Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“... I’m not supposed to talk to you... Mom said we’re not supposed to talk to you.”

Gladys held the receiver close to her ear.

“Why, Rachel?” There was no reply. “Rachel, have you seen Mr. Patterson? He’s late. I’m worried about him,” She bowed her head, tears stinging her eyes. “Rachel… Has he been to your house again?”

“I have to go, Mrs. Patterson. I’m sorry.” Rachel hung up the phone.

Gladys stood motionless for a moment, collecting herself. She looked at her watch. It was late and she was tired of waiting. She picked up a cardboard box of Mr. Patterson’s belongings, opened the front door, and walked to the curb. She dropped the box, letting articles of clothing spill from the sides and land haphazardly onto the driveway. She ripped her necklace from her throat, the one he’d given her for their third anniversary, breaking the strand; and as pearls flew out into the street, she saw from the corner of her eye Mr. Patterson driving towards the house.

Gladys turned on her heels and marched back inside. The pulsing in her head was like a drum now. She walked straight into the kitchen, as if under a spell, and very calmly took out her knives, the very set she’d received as a wedding gift ten years ago. 

She sat at the table and laid the largest knife over the stack of divorce papers she’d refused to sign.

There was no familiar whistle this time, only the sound of the keys at the front door. 

“Dear, I’m in the kitchen,” she called.

His footsteps grew louder as he walked through the living room.

Gladys picked up the knife and smiled.

The Pursuit of Happiness on The Sea of Discontent

 












Josephina was a sailor.

She was a lone sailor on a ship full of old men who'd been sailing their whole lives.

The men spit into the dark angry ocean because they could. 

They killed sharks because they knew how.

And they looked at Josephina like she was shark bait. Their shark bait.

She was scared at first, but she knew the ocean would one day run through her veins like it did for the others.

"I don't go by Josephina on this ship, do you hear me? It's Jo. Do you understand!" she grunted. Her long brown hair was piled high on top of her head, curls spilling loose around her pale, delicate face. Her eyes were wide and gray as she spoke, her voice high and flimsy.

The sailors laughed. Their shark bait had some fight in her. They shook their heads and walked away.

The days were long and arduous and sometimes Jo missed her life on land very much. She heard the voices of her family in her head, begging her not to leave, asking her with desperation not to go. But she had made the decision to live on the sea, where the waves were both beautiful and heartbreaking, where the ship rocked at night in such a way that she felt both sick and in the arms of her mother at the same time. Some nights she tossed and turned violently with the ocean, some nights she slept as if she were a child in a cradle.

"Jo, you're doing it all wrong," the sailors would taunt her. They were ruthless. One particularly rough sailor with a weathered face and a deep voice pushed her close to the rail and threatened her, holding her inches from the wrath of the waves. "You don't belong here, little girl!" He held her down with his textured hands, his palms scarred with thick grooved cuts from battle. She kicked and fought her way back over the edge, breathing rapidly and wildly. "The ocean holds no refuge for you!" he screamed at her as she backed away from him, the fury and sadness in his voice striking her heart. "Don't you see? You will only suffer!" he cried, as she held back a wail of defeat.

Jo ran to her quarters and slammed the door shut. She threw herself onto her worn bed and began to sob. She hadn't cried once since arriving, but the tears now poured from her easily, freely. Perhaps she had been wrong to come. She was alone and tired and broken. It seemed she had been here forever... Yet, how little respect she'd earned from the others. She never should have journeyed so far from home, the risks had been too great. This admission of failure made her cry even harder, and Jo felt the warm streams of water running down her cheeks, hitting her lips like rain, her tongue puckering at the taste.

Her tears were salty like the ocean she desperately wanted to be a part of.

...And then Jo stopped crying.

Not right away, no, her muffled cries were slow to cease, but she eventually found herself in silence. Her shoulders had stopped heaving. Her heart had resumed a normal beat. But her mind....her mind was quickening. The ring of salt from her tears was still on her lips.

Josephina sat up in realization. The ocean was within her.

She was already a part of the mysterious water...the ocean had always been a part of her, had been a part of her long before this day.

The ocean whispered deep within her soul and she'd must learn to listen to the current.

She wiped her eyes and ran back to the deck, determined, her hair wild in the wind.

"I will not concede!" Josephina cried, as she infringed upon the men. The sailors were all in a circle, laughing and joking, having long forgotten about the little girl who ran away.

She broke through the center and cried out again, louder this time, "I will not concede!" The men quieted and looked at her with shocked, curious eyes. Josephina continued. "I have come this far and I will not leave. I will learn your secrets." The sailors were silenced by her spell.

She looked out to the sea, her voice rich with conviction. "I will be unruly, I will scream and cry, and I will succumb to the power of the tide with grace and strength. I will yield to its magnificence and I will learn from the battle. I know why I am here and I will not leave," she growled. Josephina grew more glorious by the second. Her passion seared the ears and eyes of all who beheld her. "The time will come when I will sail these waters not only as your equal, but one day as your leader, and you will all wonder how I learned to wrestle Poseidon... I will listen and I will understand the high sea's wails and whispers...because it is within me: it is who I am...."

The men didn't know what to say. Some looked on in respect, a handful looked on in fear...for they all knew what she said was true. 

She believed it and it would be so.

Josephina crossed the circle and the ring of sailors parted for her as she walked back to her corner of the ship. She placed her hands on the ropes, running her calloused fingers across the dirty ridges.

She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. For the first time since she'd set foot on the ship, she was certain she belonged here.

She would fight to remain. And she would win.

Waves rocked the vessel, and when she stirred, she saw before her the sailor who'd threatened her. He stared her down for a moment with his piercing eyes. Josephina held his rough gaze.

"...Good girl," he nodded. "Honor your words, Jo. And do what you say."

She took him in and nodded back.

The sailor gave her one last look and turned the other way, smiling when he was certain she would not see.

Josephina sat serenely for a moment, letting the wind embrace her.

And then she got to her feet.

There was work to be done.

Single and Bootless

Finding a good man is like trying to find a good pair of boots.

You are faced with a sea of men every day, just like you are faced with a sea of shoes every time you walk through the aisles of a DSW. There are shoes everywhere. Beautiful shoes, sexy shoes, practical shoes, ugly shoes, unconventional shoes. It can be dizzying and confusing and glorious.

But all of a sudden, you zero in on one pair... EUREKA! You've found them! None of the other shoes matter anymore, hell, you don't even give them a second glance. No, you have found the one pair that you've been dying to slip your feet into since the day you were born. And when you try that pair on you feel gorgeous and intoxicating. "Hello, you sexy and exciting boot," you coo to your new love, "We shall never part."

But Goddamnit.

You know they hurt a little. Let's be fair, you know it will take awhile for the boot to mold to your foot. But you are so smitten that you wear them out of the store! And then...you dance. Goodness gracious, do you dance in those shoes!

"... I can break them in!" you think to yourself, boldly.



But you know.

Hell, you had an inkling the second you stepped out the door.

The truth is, these shoes REALLY hurt.

Sure, it will be a great couple of hours, a few sweet precious moments that you will revel in, but the fact remains that these shoes don't fit quite right, they kill your arches, and they burn your toes. They will honestly leave you in so much pain that you will soon be in tears, tearing the shoes off your feet by the end of the night, walking home barefoot because you cannot even fathom the ridiculous notion of wearing them a minute longer.

Those shoes, though sexy and exciting and flashy, have ruined your night.

And when you made that purchase, tell me there wasn't a part of you that secretly wondered if those shoes would eventually make you miserable.

So what's a girl to do?

Ahh, yes! What about the practical shoe?

Surely there must be a practical shoe that won't make you cry!

And there are. There are countless practical shoes. They're everywhere.

You know this pair will be dependable. You know it will be comfortable. And what girl doesn't want a dependable comfortable shoe that won't fail her and won't make her cry?







But do you run home to your practical shoe, ready to rip its laces off? Do you look at your practical shoe and think, "Oh baby, let me tie you up."

No. It is dependable, but sexy it is not.








The sexy shoe isn't practical enough, and the practical shoe isn't sexy enough. You know you won't be excited about a plain pair with no personality. And perhaps you could grow to love this dependable comfy shoe, but you can't help but want something more than "just comfortable."

So you hold off on purchasing any shoe. You tried them on and took them for a spin through the aisles, but neither pair is what you really want. You don't want to waste anymore time on something you know isn't what you're looking for.

Much like Prince Charming looking for his Cinderella, you are looking for your shoe-- but not a piece of shit glass shoe with a spiked heel, because you know dear old Cindy's feet were bleeding all the time.

You're looking for a refreshing hybrid of comfort and uniqueness. Because your feet are shaped funnily and not any pair will do. One day you'll find your sole-mate, but until then, you're single and bootless. Those kids in China better get to work.

Fraggle Dancer

I must admit something to you all.

I dance like a fraggle.



















And I love it.

I ask you, is there shame in waiving your hands in the air and letting your arms flop about like pieces of silly string?

Is it wrong to hop from one foot to the other with no coordination, in fits of giggles and peels of laughter?

Is it wrong to romp about as though you were a 5-year-old?

No, I say!

It's not wrong at all!

It is glorious.

It is freeing.

It is complete and utter joy.

It is a feeling of comfort in your own spirit and loving your place in time.

It is a divine respect for the child in your soul who dances with a piece of watermelon in one hand and a jump rope in the other, with a Slip'n Slide in her heart and a pack of Twizzlers in the front zipper of her backpack.

Some may waltz, some may disco, some may pop it and lock it.

I say 'fraggle.'

It is my dance of choice at weddings.

When the music makes you smile and you are feeling sublime, dance like a child.

Dance like you don't care what anyone else thinks about you.

People will look.

People may point to you and whisper to their friends.

But they will all be wishing they were having as much fun as you.

My name is Katherine Schwartz.

And I'm a fraggle dancer.

Joy Chronicles Part III

Infinite joy.

There are small things that make you smile.

Singing in the shower and realizing you've put on a concert for your roommates in the early A.M. hours.

Walking outside and smelling glorious fresh rain first thing in the morning.

Dry cleaner ladies who are intrinsically endearing and cheerful.

Sundresses billowing in the wind so that you have multiple Marilyn Monroe moments.

Medium brown hair turning light brown from just the touch of the sun.

Childhood memories of campfires and the arts and crafts cabin when you smell burning leaves or lilac blooms.

Finding unknown bursts of nature in your very own city, secret gardens and hidden trails, yellow daffodils and lakeside wonders.

Ice cream on a hot but not too hot day.

Flasks and pillows and grown up furniture proving that you are still a child trying to be an adult still trying to be a child...

Free samples of tea of from the Argo lady in the loop when you have no water with which to quench your thirst.

Developing missing rolls of film from years ago and delighting in sweet and mysterious pictures from your past.

Realizing family members are 99 about to turn 100...

Taking moments to find the small things.
And then smiling at these small moments.
That is our life.
And it is joyful.

Cheerios

It smells like Cheerios.

The aroma hits me out of the blue and suddenly I am whisked back to childhood breakfasts at the kitchen table in the early morning, my father encouraging my sister and I to eat faster so we wouldn't be late for school. I remember wishing I had been allowed to eat sugar-coated cereals like Frosted Mini Wheats or Cinnamon Toast Crunch or Cocoa Puffs. How silly it had been to wish for such sweet diabetes-inducing treats. We would never be allowed to eat these for breakfast.

No, it was always Cheerios.

Or Corn Flakes.

Or Rice Krispies.

But I am not smelling Rice Krispies, I am smelling Cheerios.

Cheerios makes me think of childhood. There is something in its simplicity that is innocent and pure and calm. Cheerios takes me back to a million of other memories. Waiting for the bus at the corner with my sister, playing "Restaurant" in the kitchen and serving "power leaves" (letttuce) to all of the invisible customers, riding bikes irresponsibly and falling off of them during Block Parties and scarring your upper lip right before camp so that a giant scab exists for all the other ten-year-olds to look at and wonder if it is really a booger or some weird deformity...

And though Cheerios reminds me of my childhood, it remains an adult choice. I often think to myself, "What I wouldn't give to sit on the porch in the morning and eat a bowl of Cheerios as the sun makes its way into the sky." I dream of purchasing a bistro set for this very reason. To sit in simplicity. To have calm. To eat whole grains and soak in the sun. To remember a time when everything was unsure and beautiful and sweet and innocent.

I look out the window and watch trees and pastures roll by, and I realize the aroma of Cheerios has left the air, but I will hold these sweet memories close forever.

Doll Spider

she is a marionette
caught in her own strings.

strings she thought did not exist.

she is a black widow spider who has bitten
herself by mistake.

and she struggles in vain
expiring slowly
trapped in her own naive webbing.

doll spider.

her bite would kill you
but her heart will kill her
first.

ethereal light
masquerading as darkness
sweet and venomous
smudged paint drips off her
hollow wooden cheeks

her tired blurry eyes look
downward.

she told the fly she was free
but she forgot
the wood carver sewed strings
purposely
into her heart.

she spins the tarantella with fire
but a faulty cable in her soul
steals her word.

fishnet and wire and yarn
dance in her eyelashes
she thrashes violently
wearily
held hostage in this red dance that
never seems to cease
heavy with broken limbs
and tattered visions
gnawing,
grabbing,
screaming at the
razor blade strings
that exhaust her
consume her
deny her
destroy her




she sits to rest a while





and as she lays there
twisted and mangled
like a princess seduced into war
she hears a far away lullaby
calling from within her like a
queen's distorted battle cry
power stirs
her bruised brittle heart.

she feels
beautiful
once again.

and she calmly starts spinning a
hushed quiet waltz.


she doesn't remember it always starts this way.

the handsome flies look on
and smirk at her

they never go hungry

flies know
doll spiders
always drown in their own
sweet poison.