amphibi.us

I told her, “I think I have Assburgers.”

“Assburgers? what’s that?”

“it’s high functioning autism. I often feel that way,
that I am in my own little bubble and when I’m
talking to people I am not really conversing with them
but watching them speak. and there is a point where I
shut down and can’t say a word.”

“but you’re fine, completely normal…”

“I know,” I said, “but after a period of time,
if you put me in a social situation, I think I would go
nuts…”

“nuts?”

“yeah, nuts.”

“is that why you’re often alone and can’t survive
in a normal relationship?”

“I think so, or else I am difficult, selfish,
and self-absorbed?”

“but you don’t seem that way, I mean, you’re a really nice
guy, except you’re private.”

“well, like I said, if you put me in a room with ten people, for
a long period of time, I think I would go nuts and turn mean
and vulgar…”

“well, you’re either autistic or an asshole, and I don’t think
it’s the latter…”

“I have guilt problems as well.”

“guilt?”

“yeah, from ignoring people, and avoiding people so much,
I really like people, but need space from them.”

“have you ever sought help?”

“no…”

“maybe you should…“

“well, it’s not that difficult, I have managed this far and have adjusted so as my life is
somewhat fulfilling. I wish I could find someone who understands though.”

“I understand.”

“thank you.”

© Mike Meraz, 2010

[others]

In Rome I drank absinthe. Two shots. They lit it on fire for me. It
melted two sugar cubes. I didn’t stay in the bar, I’d only come for
the absinthe it advertised. Instead I left to walk through the narrow
cobblestone streets.

I walked until I saw a man fall from a doorway onto the street in
front of me. Yellow liquid seeped from his open mouth. I walked until
I saw a mob of yelling men dragging someone (a criminal?) from a
piazza. I walked until I found my friend sitting on the steps of our
hostel.

“I drank absinthe,” I told him.
“Did you see the fairy?” he asked smiling.
“No,” I said, “I saw a man fall and I saw a man dragged away.”
“Did you stop for them?”
“No,” I said.
“I don’t think that was the absinthe,” he said.
“No,” I said, “I don’t think it was.”

© Shea Newton, 2010

The first time my ex and I vacationed in Palm Springs, we stayed at a place
owned by an old friend of his, a bear named Kirk. It was called the Inn of
Nine Palms. Nine rooms and the requisite swimming pool, a grapefruit tree,
plenty of gay porn in the front office. With us at the inn were two women.

Blaze Diamond caught our attention first. Tanning by the pool in pasties and
a thong, her DDD breasts famously on display, Blaze was a redhead with a
history. She’d been a stripper for three decades, had married a congressman
and several financiers, now was living off residuals from soft-core porn.
Kirk called her a landmark. We found her a riot, although she rarely uttered
a word; the gesticulations that accompanied her light reading were a
tutorial in dramatic flair.

Then there was Daphne, a mystery the first two days… she emerged from her
room at noon, Bud Light in hand, and lay poolside in a bikini, sucking down
can after can. Kirk finally informed us that Daphne, a lead engineer for a
Houston-based chain of oil refineries, had contracted terminal cancer two
years prior. Now retired, she drank a case of beer a day whilst waiting to
die. My boyfriend Harry thought this was tragic. I thought it rather
sensible, appropriate for an engineer, although I speculated that it must
have been a huge hassle needing to pee all the time.

The Inn of Nine Palms had a large facilities shed which Kirk had converted
into living quarters for an old friend. Irv was an ex-priest, flamboyantly
in possession of a wonderful pit bull named Marcel Proust. Marcel Proust ran
about the grounds chasing an itinerant tennis ball and kissing the guests,
his huge testicles sweeping the lawn.

These were heady days, filled with the kind of joyousness and pride I had
believed just a few months prior to be non-existent in worlds like my own.
The fence surrounding the inn’s property was lush with bougainvillea,
cascading in elaborate twists and spangles, as pink as the desert sun was
bright.

Remembering this era now I feel sadness, regret, an ache cemented – and
gratitude, for having surpassed the wealth of those times.  For the
emergence of a life much brighter than any flowering vine.

© S. H. Gall, 2010

Her arms were spotted with marks from the fall. Skin tears in at least a dozen spots where the collagen fibers of the connective tissue had given out, lost flexibility and strength.

They asked if she wanted a preacher in the room and she smiled, swore at them under her breath. You could see she had to work to make it happen.

This is how she died, with skin you could pinch between your fingers and peel from the frame, birdbone wrapped in wind. Making big decisions.

© Sheldon Lee Compton, 2010

I got out of bed
Jumped into the shower for two minutes
Went downstairs
And lit a snout
Sat down
On the door step
Unable to work out
Why I started smoking again.

I looked down
and saw my old chap poking
through my shorts
it scared me a little bit
the way it was looking at me
with his one eye staring at me

I looked around to see if anybody else was watching me
Watching him.

But there was no one to be seen
Just me and him.

© Marc Carver, 2010

[others]