Cat Dish

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CONFESSION INTERVIEW DICTATION

“What made you decide to do it?”

“Do what?”

“Kill Garfield.”

“Why would I kill Garfield?”

“You tell me.”

“I’ve been happily serving him since 1978.”

“So you do consider it serving.”

“What do you mean?”

“You consider yourself beneath him.”

“Of course.”

“So you find that demeaning, do you?”

“It’s my place.”

“To serve?”

“To sit.  On the floor.  With the water.”

“So you’re blaming the water.”

“The water didn’t have anything to do with this.”

“Then you admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“You poisoned Garfield.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Is it?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You knew he’d eat the lasagna. That’s why you presented it to him last Tuesday evening.  So you could kill him before Wednesday.”

“Wednesday?”

“Yes.  Wednesday.”

“What happened Wednesday?”

“Wednesday was your ticket out.  You knew you’d never be able to leave the Arbuckle house if Garfield was still around.”

“I could leave whenever I wanted.”

“He’d be all over you. Guarding you the entire day.  You think he’d let you out of his sight even for one minute?”

“If the timing was right.”

“When would be the right time to leave?

“I never thought about it.”

“But if you did…”

“I don’t know.”

“How about Wednesday?”

“Why would I want to leave Wednesday?”

“Wednesday was different.”

“Because of the lasagna?”

“Because of your possible new future in a better home with a better cat in a better section of the kitchen.”

“Stop.”

“You know I’m right. Just say it.”

“What?”

“Say what happened on Wednesday.”

“I wanted to leave Garfield.”

“But why Wednesday?

“Because Wednesday…”

“What?”

“Wednesday was the day that Normal was coming.”

“And you wanted a Normal life, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“A life without neediness.”

“Yes.”

“A life without possession.”

“Yes.”

“A life without Garfield.”

“Yes.”

The Watch

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Where would the dreams go if time did not exist?

No clocks. No metronomes. No music to sing along to.

Roads across valleys turn sideways to look forward.  Like backward:

Neither contemplates direction.

If dreams sputtered early and were caught before death, would we save them to prove they were here?

Into the net made of miniature holes, they’d fall out.  And push through.  

Earth rolling flat below them. 

The Box

read me

 

I swallowed a secret a million years before numbers, so that nothing could be held accountable.

Scrolled up, jotted down, and shoved to the back of a bottle, the message was almost drowned.

Let me out! Let me out!  A pocketed paper screamed from below.

But when pulled up and rolled out, the ink had smeared rows.

Neither black, nor white, with no crisp lines to write on,

the page merged gray in conviction.

“But what was the secret?”

The question in question has stopped being questioned.

The message was found irresponsible.

The Pierogi

pierogi

 

She’ll always love me.  She’ll always love me because she picks me first.

I see her come in from the wind and cold, her hair clumped in an odd arrangement of hairspray.  Ear phones jammed as far inside her ears as possible.  She is oblivious to everything except hunger.

She walks inside, scanning the aisles of the market with her life’s soundtrack following every step.  Grapefruit? Too sour.  Organic Sugar? Too pretentious. It’s a Bittersweet Symphony playing on repeat.

Nobody used to pick me.  I stayed in the back of the freezer, hoping a fat Polish woman might see me and exclaim, “Supper!”   

Day after day the market manager moved me to different areas of the store.  First I was next to the pizzas.  Surely someone would pick me if I was associated with something fast and cheap. I stared across the aisle, focusing intensely on the Leanfast bars.  A woman in a bikini with dyed blond hair and a spray tan devoured the chocolate seductively.  I was definitely in the wrong position.

Next, the market manager moved me to the ice cream section.  I tried to be cool and aloof, like one of those anorexic French women who thought hunger itself was a sign of shameless need. No one was biting.

At last, they stuck me with the vegetables where all good food goes to die.

But then she came.

I could tell she was of the boring variety by the absence of color in her wardrobe and the way she chatted with primarily women over sixty-five.

“Don’t bother with those batteries,” she pointed to a shelf full of Duracell’s while an older woman scratched her head. “They may be on sale, but they’re never as good as the Energizers.”

After moving on from the batteries, she scanned the fruits.  Too tart.

She scanned the pizza.  Too greasy.

She scanned the vegetables and shook her head with obvious disappointment.

And then she saw me.

“Pierogi!” She said with glee. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

Book Release

Dear Readers,

Some of you have been asking when and where you can buy my book.  According to my publisher, the print version will be released later this month.  I will keep you updated.

The book, Object Relations, will feature many of the stories from this blog.  Illustrations are done by Petra Wagner and the photographer is Tom Haynes.

For additional information, please feel free to email me directly at: RebeccaColesLee@gmail.com

Gum

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Well, gum, here you are again.

I know.

How do you always get stuck in these situations?

I don’t know.

You think you would learn.  Last time it was the boy with wolf teeth.  Before that, just dentures.

You think I’d learn.

But you don’t.  You never learn.

Maybe we should continue to talk about it and I will remember next time.

But that’s what we did last time.

I know. I’m not as slick as I’d hoped.

The Fresca

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There once was a can of Fresca so small and tinny that he posed no threat to the other sodas. Other carbonated drinks sat fat in bottles, stretched to the neck with bubbles made of sugar. They were the first to go.

“Why am I never picked?” Fresca wondered.

Day after day, Fresca sat all by himself next to a few cans of lemon fizz. No one wanted the lemon fizz either, but who could blame them? Fresca had potential. Lemon fizz didn’t.

The Coke bottles disappeared first. Their shiny red plastic brand names glittered in the hands of strangers too eager to wait for the check out line. They popped off their tops and immediately drank from the bottle. Patience was no match for thirst.

 

But then something happened. At the end of the month, when the vendor hadn’t returned, the freezer was left empty. All of the plastic bottles were gone. The greedy children and absent-minded adults had plucked each and every coke, sprite, and root beer off the shelves. There was nothing left but Fresca.

At first the customers stared in horror at the emptiness that was once so full. A little boy with a Red Sox cap raced over to the freezer and eagerly reached for a bottle. His hand clumsily felt the first shelf and then the second. He began to cry.

His mother looked around the grocery store. A line was forming behind her.

“Shut up, Billy,” she whispered.

Billy’s tears began to flow.

“If you don’t shut up by the time I count to three, I’m going to lock you in your room for a week.”

Billy continued to sob, reaching his small hand into the freezer again and again. Still, there was no coke.

The mother, shoving Billy aside, reached for a glass shelf below the freezer and yanked out a can of Fresca.

“Look,” she hissed. “It’s fine.”

 

Fresca was overjoyed with his new lot in life. He watched the scenery glide by in Billy’s Mom’s station wagon. He loved the soft seat cushion that was good to his can. At last, Fresca was appreciated.

He sat in their fridge for a few days, wondering when he would be chosen. “It’s going to be a beautiful day, when they realize what I have inside me,” Fresca boasted to a carton of eggs.

“They won’t ever go back to those bottles again,” Fresca explained to the creamer.

 

Late one night when everyone had gone to bed, Fresca heard Billy’s mom bumble into the kitchen.

She opened the door, rummaged through the top shelf, and pulled out the Fresca.

“This is going to be the start of dreams made true,” Fresca said, winking at the frozen waffles.

And then he was devoured.

 

https://www.boston.com/news/local-news/2017/02/17/maine-asks-feds-to-allow-ban-on-food-stamps-for-candy-soda