Don’t Watch Her Cry

A Short Story
Written by -M. Taggart
Copyright 2017

Don’t Watch Her Cry

 

It hurt to watch her cry. She convulsed. Her head shook up and down. I wanted to put my arms around her. She was hating me. Maybe, though she needed it. It was my fault. I didn’t know my words damaged her this badly. Now though, I could see what each of them had done. Her hair was down and I couldn’t see her face. I only saw tears dropping near her feet.

Another me had raised my arms and put them around her shoulders. I fought the mind game I placed on myself. If she hates me, let her rot. Let her rot in Hell. My arms pulled her head to my chest. I could feel my heart beat. I hate my heart beating.

‘Don’t. It’s O.K. I Love you.’

She convulsed and my heart now hated me.

‘I don’t know. I don’t want this. Listen, I love you. You don’t believe me, but, I do. I don’t want what I said. I’m sorry.’

Her neck smelled so nice. Her tears too. My thoughts struggled.

She didn’t push away. I pulled her closer. Maybe it wasn’t over. ‘I just want to have you back.’ her throat full, ‘You use to be so amazing. You were, incredible.’ she had huffed the words through.

I was. I were. I am not. I am nothing. I hate myself. My heart can now stop completely.

My other self rubbed her back and told her I loved her and that it would be O.K.

She stood. Not ripping from me, but leaving me. ‘I don’t know how it can be again.’ tears streamed down her beautiful face, dripping from her chin. ‘But I think it will be.’

 

 

 

 

Odd Walking Thoughts – A Wind

The boy was exhausted. Again, he picked his head to look. It hurt him to be both asleep and not. Is he alone? Soon, he knew, the door would open. Time to shower. Time to shower. Time to shadow. Time to disappear. Can we push the shadow with the whisper? Does it count to pour this down? Or, are we to always let the steam rise and the door lock and the scream shutter.

-M. Taggart copyright 2017

A Simple Truth – A Short Story

A Short Story
‘A Simple Truth’

Fiction- Written by -M. Taggart

Warning- Adult Material.

She use to wash my feet, he thought. The water from the shower would land on her breasts and he’d watch the beads of water collect and trickle down her stomach, to her naval, and then the tub. She’d take her time and scrub one foot at a time. He didn’t know why she did this. He had taken it for granted, he thought.

Now he sat on the couch, looking at his feet, and wondered why she’d ever cared enough to touch them. He opened a can of beer. It made a suction sound. Bits of beer flew up and out of the can. Some sprinkled onto the coffee table.

‘Want to go for a walk?’ He asked her.

‘No. It’s too cold out.’ she replied.

It was 50 degrees. The sun was shining. It was November.

‘We could bundle up. You have that L.L. Bean wool jacket.’

‘I don’t like it. It itches my skin. Besides, I brought it back.’

He took a long pull from the beer. It foamed in his throat. Soon he would need to spit. The sun looked graceful. He wanted to be in it. Walking. Anywhere. He knew if he left for a walk she would become angry. If he sat and made conversation, she would pick it apart. If he sat and said nothing and drank more beer she might ignore him and that was the best plan.

The shower almost always ended with her giving him a hang job. He would be close to sleeping. She would message his calf. Then his quads. Eventually she’d start to tug. How to get back to the shower and the washing of the feet?

‘Do you want to take a shower?’

‘I’ll take one later.’

‘I mean the way we use to. But this time I’ll wash your feet. And you can lay back and sleep if you want to. Let the hot water land on you, I won’t need it.’

‘All you think about is fucking.’

Often, yes. He thought. But that wasn’t what he’d been thinking about. He wanted to repay her and find a way to go back. Fix all the middle ground he and she had trampled on. He was confused about it, but knew somewhere in there was truth.

‘I don’t want to fight.’

‘Have another beer.’ she said.

The best plan was to have another beer and not talk. Not talking was nice because he could still talk in his head. Fuck, he could write an entire novel in his head and forget it all by evening. He might even sit down and write a chapter. Or, he’d tap into some whiskey and relax into a nice long conversation he’ll never have with the one he loved most because he wasn’t sure how to start without chaos following.

‘Want me to grab you something from the kitchen?’ he asked her. He had finished his beer.

‘Can’t I sit here in peace? Why do you constantly pick at me. What’s with all of your questions?’

‘Fuck you.’

The words slipped out before he could stop them. Now it was too late.

‘Maybe if you weren’t such a self-centered bitch who can’t realize how hard I’m trying and how difficult it is to communicate with you, maybe then, you’d fucking get me. But until then it’s more beer and a big Fuck You.’

She got up and grabbed her jacket. He heard the keys in her hand. The sounds of self-served abandonment. He knew it well. ‘Keep being you. You drunk.’ The door slammed shut.

He needed to spit badly now. The beer foam had gathered in his lower throat and was becoming a ball of fucked up saliva. He felt the tension from the fight gathering in the pit of his stomach and rush toward his chest and he spit the wad from his mouth and watched in spin in the air. Parts of mucus broke off and went in its own direction. The bulk of the wad landed near the TV, on the carpet. It clung to the carpet looking disgusting. He’d never done that. He wished he hadn’t. He hated himself because he knew the same emotion which enabled him to cause this mess was the exact same that caused him to destroy his relationship.

Fuck myself, he thought. Then he got up, went to the fridge, opened a new beer and grabbed a towel.

copyright -M. Taggart 2016

Want to read more of my writing? Try my self published short story, ‘Don’t Be A Sally’ found via the link below.

A Poem – We

The individual is gone-
A distinct adventure-
Watch – another cubicle erected

What’s wrong with dust?
First sunrise to show the rest-
Weathered, exhausted, satisfied-

Do we need to consult on words-
Patch the warriors mouths with more-
But then, they never were

What’s wrong with the hoe and wishing for rain?
The seeds show strength when growth continues-
Can we go back

It’s gray – We can see our breath
We are ahead of the morning

Mommy Don’t Take my Smile – A Poem

Don’t take my smile-
A baby tugged on a string-
Angry parents walk heavily-

A girl kissed a boy-
Vile symbols shook-
How could you-

A toddler finds heaven-
The mother scolds-
Heaven is not a thought

A boy kissed a boy-
Whispers never speak-
But these did

A child finds a storm-
The father doesn’t see-
Severe comes the night-

A woman finds her man-
Mud and Farm and life-
He isn’t enough

A man loves his wife-
Lying beneath the ground-
If ever again I can-

Mommy – Don’t take my smile

-Copyright 2016 -M. Taggart

New England Talking Trail – A Poem

A wooded trail in New England is different than any other-
For it speaks to you while you walk

The gray squirrels announce your arrival
while playing tag in the under brush-
The chipmunks chirp their warning
and now every woodland creature is aware-

The blue jay shrieks its boastful bellowing call of territorial command-

The wind rustles the drying leaves –
Readying themselves to drop to the ground-
They sound like evening whispers while sitting on a porch

A bend in the trail beckons you – though it is getting to be dusk-
Now the sounds of the path are darkening-
and have taken a tone of daring

Moonlight is seeping through the canopy of New England-

While you walk you hope the light of the moon will brighten the trail-
Just a bit more-
For you hear the same gray squirrels and rustling leaves-
But the squirrels are much larger now, and the whispers are no longer friendly front porch speak-

copyright 2016 -M. Taggart

 

I invite you to learn about my self published book.

https://mtaggartwriter.wordpress.com/my-book/

A Poem – Who’s View

How do I know when I’m dreaming of God-
Is it when I see the world from above-
Each country border never showing
Even favorite states are only known by remembered landmarks-
Ocean waves lapping coasts – White clouds covering both land and view

I’m unsure if it’s when I dream of faces I do not know-
They come to me – in a glimpse I see their hurt or happiness-
Crevassed facesĀ – or white polished smiles of beautiful people-
Angry shocking images not belonging to me

Then I dream of a child playing in a field- having found a grasshopper-
The child’s siblings run through the tall grass calling to catch them-
Sunlight bounces from their hair and all the grass and all the everything I can see-

I ask my son to dream of God.
I do this often as I rock him to sleep – telling him God is the best thing to dream of-
That I know some – but not enough-
I ask God to help him sleep well – I ask God to show himself to him-
So he might know him – that even if he asks in a dream that it’s more than I can give-

Though I give my heart – My thoughts – My true self-
If I cannot understand when I dream of God-
I am not so full of me to not realize I’m not enough

copyright 2016- M. Taggart