Breadcrumb #93

STACY SKOLNIK

Hello
just simple looking
for someone to see on a regular
basis into building        
some sort of friendship am black 5'9
am dtf you be the same and
please send pics with your reply and
serious I'm a white
male with lotsa fantasies
some lived out some never
to be. I'm lonely
and home early on Fri night
Would love to e-mail
or message with a woman whos
kinky herself. Just be 18+
and enjoy kinky e-mail exchanges
successful professional
experienced sadist behind
closed doors, looking for
a woman want a long-term
relationship based on pain and intense
punishment. Limits respected
of course. Any age, any
level of experience
considered, but no smoking
drug use, heavy alcohol
consumption or overweight. I'm
a perverted man and I love to make
virgin girls very nervous. I
like doung creepy things
to makr you feel
embarrassed and uncumfortable
I want you to feel nasty
and dirty when you go home
You will come back again fir more
You have needs too but
want to keep your virginity
You can go home feeling all the things
your feiends only told you about
and have ypur virginity in tact
I live alone in Tomkins Cove
but would be more than willing
to travel to meet you. I am hard
working, creative, sensitive
and dynamic. I have a good life
I am only missing a partner
in crime. I love animals and am
a good cook (bad news
for both of us) and I have pics
to trade and am for
real. Race and Size (I want to be
upfront about my size
I'm a big Guy) unimportan
Send an email and lets
start the Conversation

• • •

Breadcrumb #92

CHRISTIE DONATO

Anna sat on the steps of what had once been a university’s campus. The buildings were neutral in color and noble in their abandonment. As if they didn’t require people to maintain their status as places of learning. Green, leafy tendrils had pushed and pulled and wrapped themselves around the small, red bricks of the old walkway. Anna had even seen the beginnings of trees — little sprouts — cropping up here and there. Just like back home, the earth was slowly reclaiming its space. She supposed that people could come and go, but the plants and trees would always find a way. They could outpace humanity. Trees especially seemed to have infinite time.

     Lily, who never passed over an opportunity to nap, was dozing, belly up, with her little paws slightly bent. Early autumn sunlight warmed the back of Anna’s neck, and she relaxed into the stillness of the moment. Leaves had already begun to fall. David, from the Manhattan colony, had told her that winters could be harsh here. She knew he was worried about all the people under his care. Anna understood his concerns. Food and other stocks were low. There just weren’t enough resources to keep everyone warm and fed throughout the winter. She thought of the first colony at Jamestown. That first European settlement in America had resorted to cannibalizing their dead in order to survive the winter.

     The little dog moved one paw feebly in the air, and the motion directed Anna’s attention to a man who had begun ascending the stairs towards them. Anna had been too absorbed in the morbidity of her thoughts to notice him before. It was Simon.

      Simon and his ship had landed near the colony’s base only a few days ago. The Dies Infaustus was a small, brass-colored shuttle. Anna had taken a liking to the crew: First Mate Jacob Walden, Young Jerry, Joan, Fly, and the captain, Simon.

     He took the steps casually, as if he hadn’t been specifically looking for her. As if they had both just happened to have the same idea to spend an afternoon on an empty campus in the middle of an empty city. She made a point of looking past him at the sky. He stopped a couple steps below her and followed her gaze. From where they were, the swirling purple-gray of the rift was visible, hanging low in the sky. The hole in the universe was constantly in motion, turning in on itself over and over again, like a giant ouroboros made entirely of gas.

“She made a point of looking past him at the sky. He stopped a couple steps below her and followed her gaze. From where they were, the swirling purple-gray of the rift was visible, hanging low in the sky.”

     “They tell me 8 million people used to live in this city,” he said.

     “You mean there’s not a parallel version of New York where you’re from? There’s no side-world where, at this very moment, a different version of me is in my old house and my parents are still alive?”

     “As far as I know, there are no parallel dimensions. My world is very different from yours. Our technology, in comparison, advanced far more rapidly.”

     “So we must be like cavemen to you.”

     “No, of course not. It’s just different. Unfortunately your world was an easy target. You were virtually unprotected, but you already know that.” Simon’s voice faltered.

     Anna looked down at her dirty hands, lightly clasped together, and, past them, to her rust-colored boots. She knew how she must look to him, how this whole place must look to him.

     “You’ve come to tell me this is goodbye.” Anna finally said, looking at him for the first time. “You’re leaving.”

     “Not exactly,” he said.

     He took the last few steps quickly and sat down beside her. They sat in silence for a moment. Anna could feel his eyes on her. She had the impression that she was being sized up. That there was a lingering question about her, and Simon was here to puzzle out the answer.

     “Tell me, what does it feel like to travel through there?” Anna asked, nodding at the hole.

     Simon shrugged. “It makes you feel insignificant.” He stopped, and shook his head. “No, that’s wrong. It makes you feel all opened up on the inside. Like the universe might be inside you, or you might be the universe, and then you realize that it doesn’t matter which is which, in the end. You’re just weightless.”

     Anna didn’t respond, but instead they both watched the swirling of the rip in the sky.

     Simon finally spoke again. “David told me I would find you here. You make him very nervous, you know. It was hard for me to figure out why at first, but then I realized it’s because you understand what’s happened to your world better than he does. Better than most people do, and I think I’ve figured out how. You and I, Anna, are very similar. You’re very brave, but you’re also very clever, which is why I don’t believe this runaway story you’ve concocted.”

     Anna sat up straighter, but didn’t respond to the allegation.

     “I think you’ve met someone from beyond the rift, and you’re looking for him now. In fact, I believe we’re looking for the same person, or thing, or however you would describe him.”

      Anna looked up at the hole-rift-rip-tear and considered what Simon had said. She felt hot all over, and realized that her palms were damp. She wiped them on her pants before responding.

     “And how would I have met this person, exactly? This person from beyond the rift.”

     Simon leaned in close to her, like he was about to tell her a secret.

     “How did he happen to come to the same small town on the same dying planet as you? That part is easy. That part is the simplest to explain. The world is different now. Anything can happen.” He smiled at her then. “You already know what’s coming next.”

     Anna shook her head. Her eyes felt strange, though. Hollow and a little dry.

     He continued. “We can really help each other out here because, the thing is, I’m looking for him too. I can take you well away from here. The places that are through that hole in the sky.” He pointed up at it for emphasis. “You can explore them with us. You can feel weightless too. All you have to do is help me find the dragon.”

• • •

Breadcrumb #91

WENDY O'SULLIVAN

• • •

Breadcrumb #90

BOB RAYMONDA

Erin hasn’t been with a woman, or a man for that matter, in years. Not since long before her daughter stopped needing a babysitter. She’s grown used to the empty pleasure she gets from taking advantage of her showerhead’s multiple speeds. Coaxing out her own orgasm in a controlled and methodical way. She plays NPR through her cell phone on blast to drown out the sound of terrible metal music from Margaret’s bedroom. This is her one time of day to feel relaxed and independent, so she takes advantage of it.

     Erin steps out of the shower, stands on the almost moldy bath mat, and stares into her own bloodshot eyes in the mirror. She notices the distinctly human musk in the bathroom that lingers when she relieves herself before taking a shower. There’s something so gratifying about her own odor, mixed in with the stark humidity emanating from the stall, that she likes to live within it for a moment longer.

“She notices the distinctly human musk in the bathroom that lingers when she relieves herself before taking a shower.”

     Margaret, her once beautiful daughter, round without being fat and constantly cloaked in a summer dress, has turned into a monster. She’s rail thin and barely leaves her cave of a bedroom, which smells almost as thick as this bathroom does right now. Averse to taking showers and her own classmates, the 15-year-old prefers online role-playing games and most likely has a boyfriend twice her age halfway around the world. “Dating," of course, in the loosest sense of the term.

     She wonders where she went wrong while popping a zit just beneath her collarbone, above her drooping right breast. She’d enrolled the girl in a modicum of the best after-school activities the city had to offer. Ballet and mad-science classes became computer programming and video game design. She’s always made sure the girl is not only provided for, but also busy. And yet now, after all these years, Margaret is carrying on a correspondence with her birth mother, lusting after a life she never had. The ungrateful little bitch.

     There has always been transparency with Margaret about her being adopted. From a young age she taught her daughter that there is more than one way to start a family, and that none of these ways is the wrong one. Erin’s mother says that five years old was too young for Margaret to know this, but what else was she supposed to do? The “if you’re my mommy, who’s my daddy?” questions had already started and she wasn’t keen on selling the stork story or immaculate conception. She didn’t believe in lying to her daughter, or setting false expectations.

     Erin uses a string of mint-flavored floss and puts her face as close to the fogged mirror as possible. She continues to breathe in the hot air and rhythmically carries out her task while wondering for the hundredth time this week what brought about this curiosity in Margaret. She’d of course been supportive of the idea, providing all the documents and contacts she had, but she couldn’t help but feel hurt. Maybe Erin wasn’t her sister, Diane — she’d never shared her feelings with her daughter or been able to give her more than the most cursory of physical affection — but she likes to think she did right by her. Better than her real parents ever could have.

     With her finger she writes the word “bullshit” on the fogged mirror and sighs. It wasn’t like she didn’t want to share things with her daughter. Her therapist for years tried goading her to do it, promising that it’d help form the bond she’d been paranoid they’d never developed. But now it was too late, and as much as she hated to admit it, the idea of Margaret sharing with her biological mother instead of Erin drove her insane. The details of Margaret’s first boyfriend, the people she hated most in school, the hopes and dreams she had — anything more than the “fines” and “nothings” Erin got from her daughter every day of her life.

     Erin shoves a Q-tip in her ear and marvels at the wad of wax she’s able to extrude. She looks again at herself, not old but certainly older, in the mirror as the fog begins to clear. Her hair, slicked back and exposing her forehead, sends water droplets down her sore back. She sighs, wrapping a towel around her head while still sizing up her naked body. She wonders if she’ll have to wait for Margaret to go away to college before she can go on dates again, or if it’d be OK for her to start doing it now. Diane had tried setting up a Match.com account for her ages ago, but she never checked the messages. Created a filter in her Gmail account just so they wouldn’t come into her inbox. Maybe it was time to open one or two, if only to pass the time.

     The doorknob starts to jiggle and Margaret knocks loudly, shouting, “How much longer are you gonna take?”

     The soft but worn robe Erin puts on fits like a glove, “Just a minute, honey.” She makes sure the “bullshit” is gone from the mirror before unlocking the door, which hasn’t stopped shaking from her daughter’s pounding. She takes one last deep breath of her musk and opens it, stepping aside for her daughter.

     The two look each other in the eye and Margaret covers her nose, shrieking, “Jesus, Ma, what did you eat? It smells like a bomb went off in here.”

     The door slams before Erin can respond but she still whispers, “Same thing as you, my dear, same thing as you.” She smiles, listening to Margaret cough louder than the fan and emit other, more human sounds.  She remembers again the gorillas at the zoo: how they’d pound their chests and snarl in defiance one minute before picking flies off each other’s backs in the next, complacent and nurturing.

• • •

Breadcrumb #89

DANiel TOY

She cradles the boy in the butterfly shoppe, picking rosy glass from the seam of his scalp, lice-like. She’s careful as a surgeon, despite knowing she's already lost him. Around her, visitors continue to shriek, high-pitched and desperate, searching. They step over lifeless butterflies scattered across the floor, trapping orange wings in rubber soles. Danaus plexippus, she thinks reflexively. Milkweed reliant. Susceptible to the cold. They’d perish in a few weeks if they weren’t already gone. All parts of her usual sermon given to bored families and tourists, or anyone who happened to pass through the conservatory. Henry, her own little beauty boy, called her shoppe the Snow Globe House, referring to the 11,000 feet of reinforced glass that made up the dome of the building. Henry, he’d wonder why it was so warm inside whenever she brought him in with her.

     They can’t survive in the snow, she’d say.

     He’d ask then how can we.

     The boy in her arms now loses warmth as more air seeps in through the cracks and holes above them, around. Who did he belong to? Apple-smooth skin that makes her aware of her own rough fingers. Brown eyes, even darker than Henry’s.

     As the ground finally stops its shifting, she stands up and lays him out on a nearby bench — a single untouched thing. She motions to place a kiss on his head or to tuck hair behind his ear, but they’re not hers to give. Instead she reaches down and gathers a handful of debris: years reduced to leaf and glass in her palm. She smiles, wanting to laugh, but stops herself, acknowledging her selfish, misplaced interests.  

     When Henry was 3, she’d rest her hand on his forehead to coax him to sleep. After years of the same gesture, she became attuned to his natural temperature. It helped her to sleep too, but any fluctuation — whether too hot or too cold — would upset her. Couldn’t he just stay the same every night?

“After years of the same gesture, she became attuned to his natural temperature. It helped her to sleep too, but any fluctuation — whether too hot or too cold — would upset her.”

     How are you feeling? she’d ask, and he’d roll over or mumble or already be asleep. Wake up, she’d say. Henry, wake up. But children, she knew, were unconcerned with people who closed their eyes after them.

     Those earlier years, waking up was the hardest part — her first thoughts always about him, worry each time she picked him up, held him, that he’d look at her as he would a stranger. And eventually that’s what she convinced herself she was: a stranger raising a strange child. She tells herself now that the resentment later happened independently, but in her darkest moments, maybe her realest, it had been a self-fulfilling prophecy.

     The butterfly shoppe, she realizes, had always held her heart.

     She ignores her mounting pulse. The uninjured have all fled now, to safety or to somewhere else. She doesn’t know. The outside pollutants have contaminated the space around her, tainting the lemongrass dew, a scent she worries she’ll never experience in the same way again. Blood hides in places, she thinks, but less than could be expected, if you can expect something like that. She doesn’t know.

     Then the red and blue lights, they bounce around the shattered dome, scattering over the scene: the red concealing, the blue exposing. She closes her eyes, listens instead to the repetitive screeching, somehow more tolerable.

    One night when Henry’s cries woke her, she carried him into the kitchen to show him the progress of their in-house butterfly, then in a state of chrysalis in a small makeshift garden. It had started to hatch, she noticed, but became stuck within the hard shell — an unfortunate but natural part of the process if ideal conditions weren’t met. Its wings could still move in place, but that’s as far as it would get.

     Is it coming out? Henry said. He touch-tapped his finger to the hard plastic as if to wake it.

     She could have explained why it wasn’t using the jargon she reserved for visitors to the shoppe — its possible parasitization by the OE spore or the up-and-down temperature of the house — but instead: It will, she said. Eventually.

     After putting Henry back down, she carefully removed the shell from the container and worked at it with a pair of tweezers, understanding that trying to aid it at this point could only do more harm — illogical actions just to show her son something nice in the morning. Maybe if she could do this, she thought, she wouldn’t wake up with flightless thoughts.

     When the wings fell apart in her hands that night, she threw it all in the garbage, and Henry, he didn’t ask any questions the next day.

     She opens her eyes now to a man in a white disposable suit. He stands across the room from her, calmly waving a gloved hand toward the exit. Someone pushes her, she thinks, or guides her, or else her body naturally floats toward him, her hands grazing fallen milkweed and bee balm and honeysuckle. The boy on the bench has been removed, she sees: a blip of the night.

     When she gets to the other side of the shoppe, the man’s hand touches her shoulder reassuringly — she would have to go now, this meant. But before she can put up a fight, or demand to stay in place, she looks through the clear plastic face in front of her to see a Monarch — flittingly, impossibly — tickling the man’s face inside.

• • •