Breadcrumb #450

MATTHEW ROWE

While you waited
for the sliver of panic

to peel itself free
from the smoking radiator,

I dove headfirst
and waded to the dock.

The biting tinfoil tinge
vibrating in my gums.

My chicken skin plucking
at your boiling heart strings

in minute reverberations.
While you counted miscues,

I caught the train moving
in the opposite direction.

I licked a 9-volt battery,
poked my bruises,

cracked the ice tray
into smithereens.

One at a time,
I blessed the bumps,

as the Uptown 4 jerked
forward in a fearless plunder.

I kissed the beads of sweat
careening down your forehead,

the sky splitting
with each pucker.

The slivers of nightmares
tenderizing into a raw nothingness.

• • •

Breadcrumb #449

RILEY KREMBIL

I can hear them. Their voices worm into my ears, claw at my mind, burrow deep into my brain making a home there. I don’t know what they are saying, but I can feel them. I can feel their fear, anger, their desperation. It is overwhelming.

It’s at night that people go away. In the darkness, they disappear. And their voices get louder. When my body eventually loses consciousness, I dream. Vivid colours, the smell of decaying flesh, and the screaming. So much screaming. It doesn’t really feel like a dream. When I can wake up from this second life, my body is drained. I come to with a dry mouth, sore throat, and tired muscles. My eyes are in a constant state of swelling. My joints creak and crack. I walk through life on muscle memory unable to process anything around me. I don’t remember the bus ride to work today, working, or even getting home. But I’m out of sick days so I continue going. Either my sleep deprived self is a very capable employee or those important emails that need to go out every morning by 8 aren’t actually read. Jack wants me to quit. He says he can support us both on his salary. That I should focus on getting better. Maybe he’s right, but the voices don’t seem to follow me there.

The voices aren’t so loud right now. The sun is still up. The screaming won’t start until later. There are a few of them. I can’t tell exactly how many. They are all talking at once. It’s like having a loud family living in both ears. Each voice fighting for dominance creating a chaotic indecipherable static. They are angry right now. The sun fuels their hatred. I sip at my lukewarm espresso and push myself deeper into the recliner. I don’t know how much caffeine I’ve consumed since today became today, but my heart is racing, my face and chest are dewy with sweat, and I am still tired. I am staring at the dark screen of my television. I meant to turn it on. At least, I think I did. My thighs feel bruised. I think I’ve been sitting here a while. What time is it? If I know the time I can calculate how many hours, minutes, seconds, before the screaming will start. But my phone is out of reach and there are no clocks in this room. We should put a clock in here. Maybe Jack can pick one up. I could call him, but my arms are heavy, my voice is weak, and I am too numb to move. I’ll ask him when he gets home.

    A little orange and white bottle sits on the table beside me. Half empty of its pale-yellow chalky circles. I can’t remember if I took them today. I must have. I should have. Jack will know. The front door vibrates behind me. Three consecutive bangs shake the wood. Jack’s nervous tick. He’s home. And he’s had a bad day.

Metal scratches against metal as he fiddles with his keys. The door handle grinds down behind me. The hinges whine as the door smacks against the wall.

    “Damn door,” he mumbles. I don’t see it but I hear his bags hit the floor. He sighs and grumbles stomping his way toward my chair. “Hi, sweetie,” Jack says. I try to say hi back but my stomach flips. I hold my breath and wait. Jack sighs and squats down beside my chair. “Not feeling well?” I shake my head and the room spins. “Okay, small breaths in through your mouth and out through your nose.” He starts breathing in an exaggerated way. Then smiles, “come on, baby don’t leave me here breathing alone.” My heart swells. He makes me feel like I am 18 again. Like we are just beginning. Jack rests his forehead against mine and we breathe together. I’m not his wife anymore. I’m his patient. I don’t know why he puts up with me.

    “I’m sorry,” I say. Tears are heavy in my eyes. It hurts, but the wetness feels nice inside my thirsty sockets.

    “Nothing to be sorry about.” His lips are soft and warm against my forehead, “How were the voices, today?” I groan and he runs both of his hands through his hair. He’s hurting. My sickness hurts him. If I had any mercy, I would leave him. He doesn’t deserve this. “How bad?” I shrug.

    “Last night was worse.”

    “I’m sorry, sweetie.” Jack kisses my forehead and starts toward the kitchen. “Have you eaten?” I shake my head and the spinning starts up again. “I’ll make you some soup.” He works so hard every day and then has to come home and deal with me. It’s not fair. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and use the little energy I have to push myself out of the chair.

    I find him riffling through the pantries with his shoulders hunched over. He looks tired. I wrap my arms around him and run my hands up and down his chest. He leans into me and sighs. This feels right. I miss the days when I was the one to comfort him. When I was the one who would make him dinner, breakfast, I even packed him lunches. We were so happy.

And then the screaming started.

    “Let me do something for you, please?” He hums softly but when I try to pull away he holds on. “Let me make you something.” He turns around and smiles. I give him a small peck on the lips and pull away. This feels normal. Maybe for one night we can be normal again.

    “Where are you going?” he says.

    “Basement. We still keep the canned tomatoes down there, right?” I yank at the door but it doesn’t budge. I don’t remember there being a lock. “It’s locked?” I turn around and he’s frowning.

    “You know why,” Jack says. The memory is harsh. I can smell the burning, rotten meat. I can hear their screams. And I feel each step digging into my flesh smacking against my ribs, then hip, then head. The dream felt so real, but I’ve always had a vivid imagination. In one of my nightly fits the screaming must have driven me down a set of stairs. He probably started locking it after that.

“And I feel each step digging into my flesh smacking against my ribs, then hip, then head.”

   “Oh,” I say. His smile is small and one sided.

    “We keep them down here now.” Jack pulls open the bottom cupboard where we used to keep the cereal. The counter space is bare. My spice rack, our pictures, even that ugly fruit bowl his mother gave us are all gone. So much in my home has changed without me. “It’s okay. Go lay down and I will bring you your soup.” The bed is already untucked on my side waiting for me. I burrow inside of it. My eyes drift closed.

    “Here you go.” Jack’s voice wakes me from the void. It is dark outside the window. My skin flashes cold, my chest tightens, the screaming will soon begin. Jack sets the tray down over me. Steam is coming off a large bowl of chicken noodle. “Please eat some.” I swirl the noodles around with a spoon willing my stomach to comply. He plops a thin orange bottle down onto the tray. “I talked to your doctor. He said you could start taking these. One a night. They’ll help you sleep.” He lands a kiss on my forehead, another on my nose, and finally one makes it onto my lips. A chill washes over me as he walks away.

    “I’m going to work late tonight. Don’t try to wait up for me. You take care of you, and I will take care of those voices.” He smiles and closes the door behind him. I shut my eyes and listen to his footsteps slowly getting further and further away. I hear the clinking of keys and the sound of the basement door opening. The screaming begins. I shove my thumbs in my ears, but nothing I do can block them out. The doctors had promised that this was the medication – this was the one that would take. I grab the new bottle and shake one into my palm. It hurts going down so I take a gulp of chicken broth to ease the ache. Please, please give me a dreamless night. My face is numb, its skin grows heavy as the drug takes hold. A woman’s scream breaks through the rest.

    “No, no, please, no!” My body falls away. Do I still have a body? I can’t feel my arms, my fingers, the concept of legs seems distant. I can’t move. But I still hear her. Her screams are louder than the rest. She’s not real. They’re not real. I am alone. It’s just me. I can’t feel myself breathing anymore. Just me and I am fading. It’s at night that people disappear.

• • •

Breadcrumb #448

JOANNA BETTELHEIM

At eight years old at ten a.m. on a Saturday morning, Stephanie slathers strawberry jam on her toast. Strawberry is her favorite, thickly frosting every whole-wheat bite. She kicks her feet under her, sitting high at the kitchen counter.

    Before she can retrieve another loaded knife full, her grandmother reaches out and pulls the jar away. “You don’t want to be turned into marmalade, do you?” Stephanie’s knife remains poised in the air, glistening with smudges of pink.

     “If you eat too much sugar, you’ll get pudgy.” Baba twists the lid back on the jar. “Boys don’t like pudgy girls. And if boys don’t like you,” she disappears behind the refrigerator door, “you’ll end up a spinster. Do you know what happens to spinsters, Stephanie?” Baba pinches the blunt blade and lifts the silver knife from Stephanie’s grasp.

“Stephanie’s knife remains poised in the air, glistening with smudges of pink.”

     “They are turned into marmalade.” The knife clanks in the sink. Stephanie’s eyes grow wide. “That’s right. Zested and mashed and put into little jars with the orange and the lime.” Stephanie’s face scrunches reflexively, remembering the bitterness of the citrus spread. She hates the little bites of skin between her teeth.

    “Exactly. And you don’t want to be turned into marmalade, do you?”

    “No,” Stephanie admits, hanging her head and hooking her feet behind the legs of the chair.

    “Good.” Stephanie’s under-jammed piece of toast sits accused between them. Leaning in close, Baba whisks the plate away, dropping the toast into the trash can. “Shall we go for a walk today?”

• • •

Breadcrumb #447

MADELINE JONES

The Interlochen Bowl was empty on Sunday mornings. Rows and rows of the mental green chairs cascade down to the wooden stage, shimmering in a wet gloss. I pulled at the zipper of my red windbreaker. The rain turned steady. Down the path, sat the cluster of individual practice cabins, S Huts we called them. Each hut built of honey stained wood, their roofs drenched in chartreuse moss, carefully placed in between tall pine trees. Flutteringly came from the harp building on the bluff to the left, but nearly all of the S Huts were empty.

This was my final summer attending Interlochen Arts Camp, college in Chicago awaited me in the fall. Months ago, I declined a seat in the wind ensemble program. I loved my two previous summers at camp, but it seemed cruel to spend my last summer at home away from my mother. And I wanted to bask in the final days of unencumbered youth by the pool. My sister would be next to me with headphones on, my brother splashing his friends in the pool. Maybe I would drink for the first time with Erin and Olivia in someone’s basement. I even lined up an internship and promised my best friend, Adri, to go to all ten nights of Summer Fest, a music festival back home in Milwaukee. Then I got a call two weeks before my high school graduation. The orchestra program had a last-minute cancelation. There was no choice, I could not turn this opportunity down.

Weaving past the S huts with pianos, I got to my favorite by the dark green cabins with red trim. The Intermediate Girls Division looked like Christmas, a welcomed sight compared to the brown cabin I called home for the summer. S Hut 12 sat there waiting for me, the door half open. I climbed the two cement stairs and shut the door behind me. The hut was moist and musty, only chairs and music stands inside. My feet shuffled the sandy cement floor, the metal feet of the chairs screeched when I rearranged their order into a U shape. Careful not to pinch my hand as I slid the sticky windows back, I opened one on the north and south walls. Regardless of rain, the air was always thick with moisture, something about the Northern Michigan air and being locked in by surrounding lakes. A dry towel was something you missed, like your dog or mom’s cooking usually around week three of camp. A cellist a few huts down worked on arpeggios and the bassoonist, in the hut next to mine, started the first measures of their Mozart concerto. The rain dripped from the roof outside one of the windows. Drop. After drop. After drop. After drop. After drop. After drop. After drop.

“A cellist a few huts down worked on arpeggios and the bassoonist, in the hut next to mine, started the first measures of their Mozart concerto.”

One of the tween-filled cabins erupted in high pitch screeches, pulling me back to the reason why I ventured out in the morning at 9 A.M. while most of the camp was sleeping in, a perk of Sundays. I arranged the extra music stands, one in front for my sheet music, two on the right flipped over like a table to hold all of my tools: reeds, pencils, water, swabs, tiny screwdrivers, cork grease, key oil, and a metronome. The two chairs on my left held my case and dripping coat. I unzipped the case, revealing my clarinet tucked under the soft polishing cloth. Folding back the cloth, I pulled out the two middle joints and pushed them together, careful to align the bridge key. Then the bell at the end, and the barrel at the top leaving just a sliver of space for tuning. Finally, I gently pushed on the mouthpiece and placed my clarinet on its stand.

In the box of reeds, I rummaged for the one with four tick marks. I removed the reed from its plastic holder and plopped it in the small cup of water, letting it soak. After a few seconds, I picked up the reed and pulled it between my lips, removing the excess water. The reed returned to the face of the mouthpiece where it had been placed four times before; the black leather ligature tightened just enough to secure the reed in place.

Slowly, noodling through low registered warm-ups, sound bounced off the thin wooden walls out through the open windows, playing with the bassoonist and cello down the way. Everything rung with freshness and warmth. My upper body swayed slowly, side to side, as my fingers and breath took control. The bell of my clarinet left the resting position on my knee and circled in the air. Scales became mediations and solos became stories of late night s’mores, a first kiss by the lake, making friends from Serbia to Detroit, and never wanting to leave the four walls that surrounded me. The only time that existed was the clicks of my metronome at 60 beats per minute.

• • •

Breadcrumb #446

MICHELLE WHITTAKER

The thought of my Grandmother’s death likes to visit
the idea of a Jesus cleaned and dressed after dying

even when the clanging of cymbals or catechisms
against prayer wheels in the brain no longer lay sick.

The thought of an oncologist sketching disorganized nodules
dislikes how sleeplessness does not return the countryside I love

or my family -- who escaped to their own islands
when consuming turned into dire consumption.

The thought of the obeying silence often interrupts
this drinking, this dunderhead, who often masks abdominal pain.

Where I was made born again crawls in-and-out bed --
certain positions seem prone to restless anger.

When loving someone depressed, dying & in self-denial,
deeper the daily routine for creating art -- like a constant

circling around my Grandmother’s bed, who sings
about the imaginary violence of disease,

thinking itself mapless -- or ageless
like a luminary obedience, or the tormented knowing,

when virtue subsumes the blade ready --
soaked clean.

• • •