three men

Edible Robots

&nbsp Unspoken over the breakfast table, “I thought you only dated teenage rape victims.” My fingertip tracing the rim of his coffee cup, bright as bells, as unmerciful as gravity. He looked down at his plate, pretending to contemplate, needing to look away, “What did she say? Was it something embarrassing?”

Carnivorous Robots

&nbsp Accidentally, I let him kiss me. His mouth on mine is soothing. I feel undesignated, like I could be any human flesh, living outside myself. The hotel room surroundings help. I can feel his pulse through my arms, his heartbeat matches the anonymous drapes, the extra h’aich’s of his french accent. Next we’re in the shower, it’s too late to push him away, half-disgusted with my apathy. Unthinking, I’ve already taken off my clothes and asked him to turn down the cold.

Never Trust Robots

&nbsp He sat at the foot of my bed like a one night stand, cigarette casually in hand, the solitary cherry a note of courage in the dark. We met as strangers twice, but never again. The freshly drawn line between the outside and this room has been too firmly pencilled in. Quest and conquest, though neither applies. Here, we are parallel. Watching him I know tomorrow he will trace over my body in memory and decide how much my warmth is worth. He will run, but not very far, only a month away. I can see why she must love him.

The Humans Are Dead.

“these could be from your future husband. you could have three kids together”

Hit the ground, keep on running. Take this braille ink and trace it. Don’t stop doing what you’re doing.

I still haven’t. Instead I’ve arranged for dinner with Silva. Red, gold, her house is such a treasure. I leaned over and pulled a antique hunting horn out of the rubble of my room. Something to keep, something to throw away. He sat on the bed and looked around in wonder. The word trove. I leaned over and pulled on his curiosity, showed him the horn. Silva’s house is all silver and glittering crystal. Mirrors and shiny things. Cat haven, dinner at the table, fur at the feet. He took the ring from my keychain in the restaurant. It fit, but the price was impossible. Montreal. Could I fit in the luggage? Possibly. Cramped over in darkness, x-rayed and vulnerable to deprivation. The hallways at the hospital, plastic, granulated, we walk them, one pathway. Go left, go right now. Either way the answer is the same. The bed with buttons waits at the end, uninviting, unwelcome, too cold.

Katie‘s finally selling prints. I’m listed on her site as a “writer, among other things,” though I can’t say I’ve been feeling like it. I was published, but outside of that, I haven’t been doing very much lately. Nothing I come back to. I think it’s because I’m so rarely home. It’s difficult to concentrate at work. I’m interrupted too often to construct a coherent thread of thought.

I received another anonymous myth-letter arrived in the mail last night. I read it to Francois, and he wasn’t sure how to handle it. “No way,” he said. “There’s a stack of them.” “And you don’t know who wrote them?” “Not a clue. I thought I’d guessed, but I was told I was wrong.”

we have blue eyes too

Dearest Jhayne,

Once upon a tomorrow, before the
applause fades away, a little boy sits
in a park, holding a fistful of feathers.
“I know where your wings are,” says
a voice from behind him, and he turns
around to see a little girl standing
there. “Don’t be stupid,” the little boy
says. “I don’t have any wings.”
“I’m sorry I told you that,” says
the little girl. “But it’s your fault for not
believing stronger.” The little boy just
looks at his feathers. “Nobody has wings,”
he says at last. “People can’t fly!”
“Don’t listen to the pigeons, they don’t
know anything,” she responds. For
his sake, she turns into
a swan before
she flies away.



Previous letters: one & two, three, four & five & six, seven.

It’s comforting. It solidifies my impression of message-based narrative and adds credence to the assumption that I am The Girl.

Hello letter-author. Thank you. You’re appreciated.

“A willow deeply scarred, and somebody’s broken heart”


After Rick was a no show yesterday after work, I tagged along with Sam to a game of pool. A friend of his leaving town. Let’s get together. Celebrate. Yaletown, home of the tax-bracket enabled. Thread count, thread count and pool halls with clean floors and flat tables. Prettier people, better teeth, nicer shirts. Barefoot, I walked in and looked around. I made a three, not enough for another set. I looked around and wondered. I should be at the hospital. I should be finding busses, climbing hills, breathing sterilized air. Pressing twelve, the elevator button lighting red under the pressure of my finger.

Massive Attack – Teardrop

Matthew, Sam’s actor friend from L.A., was paired with Francois, a SFX make-up artist from Montreal. They were the cats. Graceful, fun, the polished easy flirts. In this situation, the social strata lattice-work puts them on top. I barely exchanged words with them, but species calls to species. When it was time to leave, I railed a little at Sam, as if by sheer force of will I could change his community DNA into something that would be helpful to me, some sort of chaperone who was in on the game, but he was left behind. A secondary player, uninvolved in the double-meaning conversation of glances and inconsequentialities. When it was time to go, I railed and gave up. I gave in. Francois left first and I followed, confident I would find him on the corner. We drifted out like smoke. Matthew would follow. This is all part of the scene. Leaving behind everyone else in such a way they don’t think there’s more of a party. Tag, you’re it crowd.

Media Banned from Red Light District.

Now I’m in the clothes Francois’ was wearing yesterday, low slung dark blue jeans and a long sleeve black shirt with ZERO written on the front, (my mind is now pronouncing it “zehro”), that I stole from the hotel room floor while he was sleeping because mine had been too spattered with chocolate and strawberry juice to wear to work, wondering how to create a break in my chemical fall-out refusal to go back to the hospital. I know I went playing pool out of avoidance. I agreed to hang out after out of avoidance. It’s clinging Monday depression like a wall, thick and cloying, turning my thoughts away, making me think twice. I went in Monday needing to feel cared for and walked out feeling like I’d been shot. Not his fault, I didn’t say anything. I never can. It’s not my place.

That’s part of the problem, same as it always has been. It’s like the business card that Atticus threatens me with. Jhayne Holmes: Awesome Mistress.