What the Fuck – Odd Walking Thoughts

That’s confusing, do we even understand.  If you take, then you have. If you have, then it’s gone.  We wonder where it came from.  But, that isn’t a question.  Not really.  It’s here and you know. It’s a board and the dark.  You were touching the board and you were talking to the dark.  Now, both, would like to again.

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How Many Times

It doesn’t mater how much I’ve drank I can still say it better than you.  The mouths I see.  The mouths I hear.   I was once in  a cement block.  I bellowed out that I needed help.  I heard him hear me.   He said I was close.  And then.  And then.  I heard him ask for me, but then.  – M. Taggart.

In Which We Are Amused – A Short Story. Cheers.

Written by M. Taggart-  Fiction.

Standing over the toilet, he held onto himself and wondered, “Why?”   It was just last night he had told himself, no more. The bubbles grew and he hit them with a part of himself.

She was laying in the other room, in his bed.  Thinking she was asleep, he opened the fridge door and pulled out a can of beer.  The can echoed as he opened it and that was fine with him.  He placed the beer down, empty.

He looked at his kitchen and thought, “I’m a failure.  Look at this.”

The room was trying to spin, but he held on, settled it down and looked in the direction of his bedroom door.  It was open.  It looked dark, too dark for comfort.

She heard him relieving himself, with the door open.  She listened as it went on for at least three minutes, but “How was that possible?” she thought.

She’d met him that night.  He was very handsome and they’d had dinner, he paid, and now she was here.  Naked and smelling his sheets.  They smelled like him and she didn’t know why, but she wanted to keep smelling them.  She heard another can of beer being opened and wondered why he wanted to do that.

He stepped past the kitchen counter, which caught his hip, and fell.  The wood floor helped to slow his fall.

“Are you alright?” she asked.  She’d gotten up from his bed and was now viewing him.

Smiling, wild eyed, and naked, he replied “I’m good.”

“Do you think they’ll be upset?”

“Downstairs?  I don’t much care if they are.”

“That’s not very nice.”

“Neither is the counter, but who cares.”

“I care,” she said with a serious look.

“Really?  Why’s that?”  Shifting and lifting himself up, watching her, watch him.

“I care because it was loud.”

“And did you care when you were loud?”

She covered herself with her hands.  “I don’t remember.”

“Let’s not bother with this.  Want a beer?”

“I’d rather a water.”

“A water with Whiskey?” He asked.

“No, I’d like a water.  No whiskey.  Do you drink often?” she asked.

He walked slowly to the sink and reached into his cupboard for a glass.  He filled the glass with water and turned to her, “I drink when I’m drinking,” and held the glass out for her.

“That’s lovely,” she replied and tried to be upset.  He was smiling at her and his arm was reaching toward her.  “He had a nice smile,” she thought.

“I’m not going to stand, and hold this all night.  I think you ought to come get it.”

“Who talks like that?” she asked.

He looked down, at his floor, then at his counter.  It was rustic.  There was a coffee maker and a dish dryer on top of the counter.  At the back of his kitchen there was a towel for drying dishes.  He looked at the towel.  Nothing was to see.

She watched him, “He’s not like anyone I know.  He’s handing me a glass of water, but, I see a life,” she thought.  She stepped closer, closing in and reaching.

She was naked and reaching, and he watched her, “Is this a first?” He wondered.  She’d seen his kitchen and his kitchen sink towel.  She asked, “Who talks like that?” and he looked again at the towel.

She stood, just behind the counter, enough for him to see what he liked.  “He looked sad,” she thought.  She wanted to smell him, his shoulders, and his cheeks.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Watching.  I’m watching and thinking,” She replied.

 

Ahhh, more to come on this one.  I think. –M. Taggart.

****

Note: If you enjoyed this story, you might also like my self published story, Don’t Be A Sally- Based on True Events- Which you can find on amazon and in your iBook store.

Don’t Be A Sally – Based on True Events

His heart pounded in his chest and his ears rang. He was in hell. He was sure of it. This moment; with this feeling of sickness, and pure hatred for what he felt, was hell. Welcome to hell.

No vomit came from his stomach. No vomit came from his throat and no vomit came from his mouth. His mid-section wretched up and down looking like an October cat in a filthy dance. Up and down his body rose and nothing came out. Yet he smelt his own vomit lingering all about him. Again, he rose up, and again he produced nothing. Beads of sweat were on his forehead and it wasn’t long before they fell onto the surface of the tub. He lurched heavily downward with a massive cough and something came up. Something vile and red landed onto the tub’s floor. Black. He saw nothing but black as he slowly faded and fainted again.

The full story is published and can be found via a link on my profile.  – M. Taggart

An excerpt from Chapter 1. ‘Don’t Be A Sally’ –  Written and published by M. Taggart

The Frog – Odd walking thoughts

People bore me.  Small brains.  No memory.  Then I see a frog.  It jumps because I step near it.  It jumps again because it wants to get to the water in front of it.  Then, the frog asked me what I was doing.  That was odd.  Normally, people don’t ask what I’m doing, let alone a frog.  I said, “I was just being me.”   The frog told me, “that’s enough of a challenge,” and continued on to the water. – M. Taggart.

The Way It Is – A Short Story. Cheers.

Written by M. Taggart 8/3/14

Fiction:  This short story is much about the confusion that comes along with any relationship.

Copyright 2014 by Matt Taggart, aka -M. Taggart

 

 The Way It Is

 

He could feel her staring at him.  He rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger.  Unsure of what she expected from him, he lowered his head further.

“We can’t expect this to continue if you aren’t willing to handle it.” She said.

“I’ve handled it.  I handled it years ago,” he replied.

“I don’t know that I’d agree you’ve handled it.”  She said.

“I have.  In my opinion, it’s you making this an issue, all over again and I’m not going backward.”  He noticed the wood floor seemed to be bowing into him.

They were sitting at a pub.  The pub was in town and was nearly empty.  It had a fireplace and hard wood floors.  On both sides of the fireplace were windows and the water was after that.

She sat, looking from him, then to the water.  The fire was nice, but it wasn’t giving away secrets today.  The water looked cold, she felt cold.

It was pulling him inward, again, as always when this was the topic of concern.  Then, he thought, what about tomorrow at this time?  Will there be a different topic of concern?  One that fits the moment, or one that fits the convenience of an angle?  Pulling him further in, it was.

“You’re doing it again.  You do this every time.  Shutting down isn’t going to help you.  It’s not going to help you grow and it’s not going to help us.”  She said with an edge of frustration.

He wondered how she could know whether, or not, it would stop him from personal growth when he’d already grown from this and had already gotten passed it.  He felt it was her who was stuck and couldn’t get past it.  It was her who was beating on him, for something that had already beaten him down.  She was stuck and now taking it out on him.  And the floor looked even larger and softer than a few moments ago.

“I think it’ll be fine.  We’ll be fine.  If we both want this to be fine.  What was, is not, what is.  We’ll be fine if we both want this to be fine and we’ll be done if we both want this to be done.  Or, if you want to be done.  I don’t want to be done.  There’s three scenarios there, for you, to ponder.  I think we’re fine.”

“Look at us, how are we fine?  I can’t trust you and you have such anger inside that you don’t see it.  You destroy everything around you, in time.  And you’ll destroy us.”  She said.

“That’s helpful.  Thanks.”  The floor no longer looked as interesting as it did.  Looking up he saw nothing but her face.  How beautiful she was.  How upset.  How angry.  He saw her eyes, strong, and pushing.  She was rather pushy, he thought.

“What are you smiling about?  This isn’t funny.” She said, annoyed.

“You’re pushy.”  He said with smiling eyes.

She shifted in her seat, breathed deeply and rolled her eyes.  The smack of her hands landing on the pub table was louder than expected.  The bartender pretended not to notice.

“Don’t make me angry.” She said.

“Oh please.  Go ahead, get angry.  That won’t help us to grow.”  Again he smiled with his eyes.  He noticed his glass of beer was nearing empty, though just a moment ago it was half full.  The side of the beer glass had small clusters of foam slowly moving toward the bottom of the glass and he wanted to see how long it might take for them to collect; together again.

“Stop it.”  She said.

“Stop what?  You weren’t exactly the easiest to be around today, and now you’re pushing me and want something I can’t give you.  Now, that it’s not going your way, you’re telling me to not make you angry.  Am I missing something?  Should I not have an opinion?”

“You’re twisting this all around.  I only wanted to talk about how to get us past this, and you won’t do it.”

“It’s not that I won’t do it, it’s that I’ve already done it.  Long ago, without you.  You’re playing catch up and I’m doing the best I can.  What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to get help.  See someone.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Why not?”

“I did.  It didn’t go well.  I’ve found that true professionals, don’t exist.  Individuals exist.”

She felt her frustration, anger, and disappointment rise and wanted to be away from him.  She thought, if he wasn’t to get help, they’ll never get past any trust issue.

The bar tender watched the couple as they talked.  She was loud enough to hear, he wasn’t.  He noticed that the man was almost overly aware of other people watching and knew how to shield his words from being overheard.  The women was beautiful.  She was quick with her movement and spoke in a determined way.   He thought they seemed O.K.  But not a great fit.

“Are we going to have another round?” He ask while she flared her eyes angrily. “The bartender’s coming.”  She didn’t answer.

The bartender was handsome.  He strode toward them with a steady, calming walk.  Already smiling as he made his approach, his attention was on her.

“Would you like another round?”  The bartender asked, noticing the women’s low cut shirt and viewing.  Looking up he saw the man awaiting him.  He saw.

“Yea, we’ll have another round.”  She answered smiling brightly at the bartender.  A smile that hadn’t been shared with anyone, like that, until now.

With a straight face he didn’t take his eyes from the bartender until the bartender looked away.  He wanted him to know, and he did.  But, he wondered, did she?  Did she know?  Does she care?  Is it what she wants?  And what happens, when one day, it goes too far and I say something, or worse, do something.  Then will it be me that’s solely out of control, or will it be a shared responsibility?

“What are you doing?” She asked, now looking at him, but with not the bright smile she offered the bartender.

“Thinking.”

“About what?” She asked, again with the pushing eyes.

“About life, about how things fit, about how people fit.  About future happenings and will you remember.”

“Remember what?”

“Remember all that’s happened to lead to the moment that is.”

“You’re doing it again, Stephen, honestly, what are you talking about?”

No longer sitting within himself, feeling alone, but with intent in the here and now he looked at her and replied “It doesn’t matter.  I don’t always make sense to myself.  So put that aside.  I do know this.  At the end of each day I ask myself, do I want to be with her.  Yes.  Every day the same answer and every morning the same answer and every mid-day the same answer.  I know I have issues, but I always know what I want.  I want you.”

She breathed in quickly.

“Please don’t cry, hon.  You cry in public too often.”  He said smiling, but this time with care.

“It’s better than me walking out.  Or you walking home.  Which also happens.”   She reached her hand to his, covering his.

He moved his hand to cover hers and gripped firmly.

The bartender noticed from a distance and thought it didn’t matter.  They were getting along well now, but there would be a chance later.

****

Note: If you enjoyed this story, you might also like my self published story, Don’t Be A Sally- Based on True Events- Which you can find on amazon and in your iBook store.