June Guest Posts

One Christian PepperNickel

#All of the names, events, circumstances mentioned in this obviously fictional story bear no resemblance to those in the tri-dimensional perhaps non-fictional sphere of breathing and life. Obviously this can't happen#

From the life of one Christian PepperNickel:

And mother? Meredith? She's got her own issues. Devils dancing above her head in an alcohol-infused passionate harmony of agonizing death. There she lies, on the bed, after another night of vicious liberating behavior. Sideways she takes up the whole bed, like a creature twice her size and three times less possessed of any mental capacity – incoherent and unaware of any altered condition she is in.

The dog crawls into the same bed. Tonight the beast will hold vigilance over mother's breathing corpse.

The whole house seems to be literally falling apart, trying in mocking vain to match the human chaos within its walls. A friend passes through one of our narrow hallways. As he does, a wooden frame follows him, crashing down from the wall it had been crucified to – a futile attempt to detach itself from this wreck.

But all of us are tied to one another. All in the family, and the house – rather sadly – included. It too, drawn into a whirlwind tornado; renovated once by father, only to conceal the scars lashed into its three rooms. We brought these scars.

Mama's still hurting – she cried earlier in the night, refusing to leave the front stairs, there on the stone structure she remained slouched over. But alas, she is now in bed and silence finally arises.

Father obviously doesn't care, to Jack the guests have always been more important. He never understood mother's agony. Her frustration, a call for help. He, he would much rather drink himself, pretending in front of all the others that we were pure standardized perfection. Sure, we suffer, he seemed to convince, but in much the same way as the other Micks. That was a lie.

The inner despair of this family – our family – heightened all norms and expectations. In truth, we are a conflicted lot, he knew we couldn't take one another.

Still, it pissed me off that he never cared about mother. The fucking chauvinist, much preferring to berate her; he seldom offered words of praise or encouragement when the family did somewhat well under her guidance. In truth, he was dependent on her. Sure he built and painted the beige walls of our prison-house, but the man was unsure how to even cash a labor check, let alone pay the housing bills.

My mother carried the burden of two parents on each of her shoulders, for he was often a third child to her – fourth if you counted the dog, which was surely viable.

But here she lies, and there he entertains. Everyone else thinks things are okay, and only we the family and God see these naked wounds. Crucify the pigs, liberate the swine. Rise, rise, rise, for you are all guilty. And meanwhile, there in front of the guests, I saw him dead. He punctured himself like a balloon, pork knife smiling out of his stomach. Goodbye Jack, for once I loved ye...father.

A story by K. Haranczyk

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if happiness is a choice
you have to use your voice
but i lost it along the way
i shouted and screamed
until i could only whisper
and then it disappeared
it never crossed my mind to find it
as others searched,
overturned blankets and sheets,
doormats, dirty rugs, empty boxes and cans,
discarded food scraps, creaky closet doors,
the bathtub drain, the jail cells,
textbooks, and professional eyes
as if it had a place to hide
as if silence was not a source,
a beginning
a way to free my tangled veins
of complicated heartbeats 


By: A Ryan