Vol. 2, Issue #1 Feb. 2nd - Feb. 15th, 2007

No More Happy Endings
By: G. Smith
Illustrations By: Josh Reynolds

Episode 1 - Crazy

I am thinking about setting this house on fire, sitting down on the hardwood floor, Indian style just having meditated, achieving zazen, watching everything burn around me. I would watch the flames trickle up around your her stuff (the large black and white lily painting mounted over the mantel), watch them dance and multiply around my stuff (the computer desk and stacked and crumpled manuscripts), watch them eat our stuff (the living room furniture) and the stuff we don’t know if it’s mine or yours hers (the box of pictures and mementos of lives we both lived mingled with shared material memories).

Dark smoke billows on the ceiling. The fan makes a donut in the black. The January snow melts around the windows and on the roof. I’m sitting drunk, wrangling a bottle of Jameson’s, blanketed with letters and notes and pictures from you her since you were she was sixteen. I raise my un-bottled hand and place the pistol I bought with my school money in my mouth and end the heartache.

The firemen would douse and discover my charred remains. The coroner would rule the cause of death suicide, not heartache. It would be arson, not accidental death.

Your Her parents would see it on the news. They’d call you her and tell you her to come home that they had something important to tell you her, to come home something has happened. You’d She’d feel guilty, shocked in grief.

You’d miss me then. Miss me more than anything you have ever missed. More than playful yappy Coco. More than being a cheerleader and a dancer. More than early morning sex, or sex in the back of your old Protégé, more than hickies on your fuzzy soft belly, more than all of those cute little lines that I have that within the last couple of days that you’ve started remembering and smiling when no one was looking. Like when you had something in your eye, dirt or an eyelash, and you’d want me to look to see if I could see what might be stuck. I’d look closer, your head tilted back a little, I could feel your breath on my neck even then and I’d tell you what it was. Sparkles, every time. You always had sparkles in your eyes.

You’d miss me more than your fat sweaty crooked-membered ex-boyfriend. And you’d realize your mistake. Your guilt would be so intense, so heavy. And you’d miss me. You’d miss me so much that you’d swallow a handful of pills, just like my sweet Juliet you’ve always been. You’d lie down and close your eyes and think of those first few moments when our eyes locked and the words didn’t come, and there we were and new love came piercing through our apprehension bringing smiles, and then both of us looked at the floor.

You’d find me in the afterlife. You’d tell me that you were wrong. You’d tell me you were sorry. You’d tell me that you couldn’t live without me, that you couldn’t live without me. And I’d tell you I told you so. I’d ask you why you never listened to me. Our souls would embrace, forever together in a peaceful place with no boundaries and having all the time that our love deserves.

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