The Adventures of Indy the Puppy

Introducing my new puppy, Indy (yes, as in Indiana Jones because I'm that awesome).

Remember those monkeys from "Kingdom of the Crystal Skull"? Well, Indy hates them too!

After the monkey was dead to his liking, he decided to pose for the camera (or rather, I made a funny sound and he looked at me for a split second).

"hello,  my name is Indy and you'll never be as cute as me."

Then, after a long day, he crashed and no amount of poking or prodding would wake him.

what do corgis dream of, when they take a little corgi snooze?

do they dream of chasing squirrels, or killing monkeys if they have to choose?

don't you worry your pretty Indy head, we're gonna get you to your crate and your cozy corgi bed.

then we're gonna take some pictures of you, and pick up everything that you shouldn't chew.

indyyyy indyyyy indyyyy oh indyyyy indy indy indy

and if you decide to make potty in the hoooouuuse

...then we're shit outta luck.



There you have the newest edition to the family. Enjoy random and unscheduled updates!

Best of the Brine

My Dream House

In my dream house, the walls are white and the lights are bright. There is a certain stale feeling that never goes away, no matter how many pictures of flowers I draw and paste to the walls. The rooms are many, so many in fact, I haven't been in all of them. Of course there are some I venture into often. Usually I enjoy visiting those rooms, but some of them are like living nightmares. The paint peels away from the walls, bugs litter the floor, and writing that isn't my own is scratched into the door frame.

But I guess that is the problem with my dream house: sometimes it isn't even mine. They say that isn't possible, which is why they painted my walls white and installed those terrible fluorescent lights.I am given vitamins to keep from entering the scary places, and sometimes they even work. Yet, other times I find myself wondering what is in those dark rooms, the ones I have never been to.

What magic could lie there? What adventures? Why am I not allowed in any rooms but the ones with the lights that they tell me I can enter?

So when they aren't looking, I explore my dream house.

The first few floors look like the one where I live. But eventually, I find the elevator. When I step in, I'm amazed at the numbers I can press. For starters, I chance a trip to floor 2,003. It's a place I have been to before, and that I enjoyed very much. Upon arrival, I discover that the walls are still white. It disappoints me that they were able to touch them without my approval. I feel violated, and it makes me angry.

I march back to the elevator and climb even farther up. Floor 6,000. I don't remember this place very well. My heart sinks when I see cans of stark white paint on the floor, brushes wet and ready to be set on the walls. How could they get so far without my knowing? A split second decision fueled by anger sends me forward and kicking over the paint cans, spilling them over the floors. The bottoms of my feet become sticky with the substance as I trek back to continue my journey up.

Up and up I go, past floors I have never been to. The lights grow dim in my dream house. I can feel dawn approaching, and know that my time exploring will soon come to an end. I have to get to the top, before it is painted over and closed to me forever. The elevator screeches to a halt, and the doors slide open.

In the hallway, the lights flicker as they always did before the vitamins and paint and fluorescents. My knees tremble with excitement as I step off the elevator. Everything is as it should be in my dream house. These walls are painted with murals and bright colors that send my heart into a flutter. But it is too soon when the sun breaks the horizon and I am forced back to my room.

That day, they notice something different about me, even though I try to hide it. The man with the thick glasses and slick gray hair asks me questions.

Did I take my vitamins? How many rooms did I visit last night?

I curse myself and then realize I never wiped off my feet. With terror, I check the bottoms of my socks but find no traces of the white paint I kicked over the previous night.

The man eyes me suspiciously.

He asks me what I am looking for.

I tell him the truth, that I should have paint on my feet.

He knows I have been to a floor that is off limits. He seems upset, but stays composed.

In a quiet voice, that I have to strain to hear, he tells me something I have heard many times before.

I am the only one who can enter my dream house, it was constructed for me years ago to help me. The reason it is so large is because it must house all of them; each and every dream. A person will have close to 10,000 dreams in his or her life time. For each dream, a room is made and the door shut when it is over. The lights go out on the floor when it is full, leaving my house dark, except for the white walls and fluorescent lights.

He says that those are my problems. He says that I live in my dream house.

But I don't see it as a problem. Doesn't everyone want to live in their dream house?

The Best of the Brine

Haunted

Today was a day just like any other. It started and ended the same as the 9,028 days before it. The sun came up, made it’s never changing journey across the azure sky, and dipped quietly behind the pale horizon. There were 24 hours, 1440 minutes, and 86,400 seconds in this day. Babies were brought wailing into the world, people were sent to meet their maker, but most people went about their business with no second thought to this single day. Just one day among thousands.

But for me, this was not a day like any other.

Today was the day I died and I did not go to meet my maker. Going to meet the almighty would be like being born all over again, and that would mean not remembering anything from this too short life of mine. And forgetting is unacceptable.

Forgetting would mean not being able to remember her. And not being able to remember her-her smile, her eyes, the gentle slope of her neck- is the worst kind of blasphemy I can think of.

I’m not stupid. I understand that what I have here is not any real kind of life. It's not even a proper death for that matter. I know can never really have her. I can only watch. Not that my watching will make any difference; no matter what I see, I can never do anything about it.

I’m not stupid. I don’t expect to suddenly take control like some Patrick Swayze wannabe, and be able to commune with those I have left behind. Or rather, those I was supposed to leave behind. Cause I’m still here. And I’m staying. And that is how it will remain, for as long as… well. God knows how long.

And until then, I intend to be a watcher. Her watcher. I am sure I will see things that I don’t want to. Someday in the future she will find someone new. And that will hurt. It will hurt more than dying.

Which, now that I mention it, didn’t hurt much at all. I was driving my car, thinking that I didn’t really want Indian food for dinner, but she managed to persuade me, like always. She had Lady Gaga cranked to full volume, even though I am not what one would call Lady Gaga’s biggest fan. She was laughing. I was laughing.

Then there was the blast of a horn and light exploded across the windshield, and then? Then, I was gone. Just like that. And she is still here. Grieving for a man she thinks is lost. Her hands are clutching a tissue between her knees, and her forehead is resting on the surface of her wooden dining room table. Her shoulders stopped shaking from sobs some time ago, but she is still crying. Leaking. Tears are falling from her eyes, but she is too exhausted to really cry.

“Tom.”

She says my name. Hope does not flutter in my chest because I know she cannot see me. She doesn’t say anything else either, to worn out to do anything but leak, and whisper my name. It’s almost enough to make me regret my decision. Almost.

She would be so pissed if she knew. She would throw a massive fit, outraged that I chose to forsake my afterlife in favor of following her around like a pathetic ghost-stalker. If she knew, she would demand I change my mind. She would banish me from her presence. She would probably try to hurt me, force me to move on.

But she won't get the chance to do any of these things, because she’ll never know.

I walk behind her. I want to put my hand on her shoulder, to comfort her, but I know that is against the rules.

Not that she will be able to feel my hand, or even sense my presence. But I will be touching her while at the same time unable to feel her. And that is enough to undo me. It is my own restriction. If I tell myself I am not allowed to touch her, I will never suffer the heartache of not being able to feel her.

She walked away from the accident untouched. I like to think that I was a buffer, but in reality I know that it was just luck. I know her well enough to guess that it is tearing her up inside-why me instead of her?

She sighs.

“Why.”

I expected this. People do this when they lose someone they love. But I don’t get my hopes up. I know she doesn’t know I’m there. These are rhetorical questions, meant to hang in the air unanswered.

“Why did you do this? It’s so unfair!” Her voice breaks on the last word and she swallows.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.” A flood of tears. God, I hate seeing her cry. It’s so wrong for her to cry. She was always so happy, so whole, and it seems unnatural for her to suddenly be so broken. I turn away.

She stands, wiping her tears on her sleeve, and I wonder if she has finally exhausted herself enough to go to bed. It’s almost 2:00 am.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,” she says again. Her voice shakes, but she doesn’t cry. At least not until, “God, Tom.”

I know she can’t see me, and I know she doesn’t know I’m there. I walk into the kitchen, and she sags back down on her chair.

“Why did you leave?”

I wonder when anger will replace grief. That has to be easier to handle than this. This is torture. Self inflicted, of course. I chose to stay. But torture nonetheless.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be!” she says a final time. I turn, looking around the door frame.

“How could you do this? How could you be so selfish?” I sigh. And then:

“You were supposed to go.”

I stare.

“You weren’t supposed to stay, Tom. Why did you stay?”

I look down at myself. She doesn’t know I’m here. I’m not stupid, I’m not some Patrick Swayze wannabe who thinks I’ll suddenly be able to commune with those I’ve left behind.

Impossibly, her eyes find mine. “You needn’t look so surprised.”

But then, I didn’t leave them behind, did I?

Best of the Brine

Can't Have One Without The Other


Your name is David and you are between the ages of 18 and 24 years old.

You watch me.

Today you take your time when you follow me home, being careful not to alert me to your presence. Your shadow falls behind you, eerie and cold on the pavement. Rain, just light enough to lend a chill to the air, settles on your leather jacket. The black material creaks as you walk forward. With great care and anticipation, you slip your gloves over your fingers, squeezing your hands into fists. You know that I do not notice you. Stealth is my only companion tonight on the lonely walk home.

A street light flickers above your head, and for just a moment you consider aborting your plan. But it is such a good plan. You can't resist the urge to keep going. The end will be so very sweet.

Your boot lands in a small puddle, sending droplets of water into the night air like an explosion. They reflect the light like diamonds, throwing miniature rainbows in all directions. You think they are beautiful, but not as beautiful as the way the vein in my neck pulsates with rich, dark blood. You want to see it explode just like the puddle of water underneath your foot. The liquid will coat your fingers, turning your gloves into red velvet.

You bury your excitement in your current task: watching me clumsily unlock my door. With great effort, you let your walls fall down and begin to let yourself fall in love with me. It is in the way some of my hair has fallen from my pony tail, so I tuck it behind my ear. You find yourself fascinated by the smudge of ink that has gone unnoticed all day along my jawline. The love swells in your chest until you are consumed by it. You know that without it, your next actions would have little to no effect. Because you can't hate someone without loving them first.

The door clicks shut behind me, and you know that I won't lock it for another forty-five seconds. When I first arrive home, I always take off my jacket, shoes and turn on lights. Then, I swing my purse over a chair in the living room and place my keys in the pretty little ceramic bowl decorated by whales and seaweed my niece gave to me at Christmas. It is only then that I turn around towards the door to ensure my safety for the rest of the evening.

But the hallway is darkened by your shadow. You lock the door for me and commit to memory the complete shock and terror on my face. Words begin to form on my lips, but you know what I will say. You have heard the pleas, the cries, the accusations dozens of times before. I am no different than any of the others, except that I am now and you still love me.

It's only when you see that I have wiped away the smudge and brushed my hair back into place that your love is lost. You think back to the puddle of water and all that blood pumping through my body. Red velvet comes to mind as you watch me run towards the kitchen. But I will not escape you tonight.

As you tie me down, you introduce yourself. I don't hear you, because my mind has already left this place.

You spill some of my blood and wait for it to pool.

Splash, you think to yourself as you pound your fist into the puddle. But the explosion is not what you wanted; you need more.

You wait, and watch me.

Oh goodie, the new post editor is up and running. I can add video and pictures much easier now! WOOOO

Happy Labor Day Weekend everybody!

Best of the Brine

Carceral

I loved my job. I loved the people I worked with everyday. The window above my desk always had sunlight and a great view of the gardens behind the building. It was a happy place to work, even if it wasn't perfect. Thursdays were cake day, where someone brought in baked goods every week for the office.

It all started on a Thursday.

Now when I think about pink and white frosted cupcakes, it is all I can do to not become violently ill. My life changed on a cake day when scarlet blood spattered onto the perfectly decorated pastries, making them a gory reminder of how living should never been taken for granted.

My first memory of that day was when Jenny bounced in, carrying her platter of community cupcakes. She told us it was a new recipe and that if we didn't like them she wouldn't be offended. I flashed her a reassuring smile and wished her a good morning. That was when I could still give reassurances. When I could still smile and mean it.

The rest of the morning wasn't very memorable until I looked down at the clock on my computer and saw that it was 11:15, time for a short coffee break. I stood, stretching my muscles and walked to the small kitchen, the smell of much needed caffeine driving me forward. It wasn't until I clinked the coffee pot back in place that I realized something wasn't right.

The phones, which usually rang off the hook, were silent. I stared down into the black liquid in my favorite cup. Small waves rippled across the surface, making me want to dive in, head first. Jenny rounded the corner quickly, her eyes bright and excited.

"There is something wrong with the Internet connection. Maybe they'll send us home if we can't get any work done!" She clapped her hands and giggled, taking a step back from the kitchen into the hall. "Have you tried a cupcake yet?" she asked

I eyed the treats on the counter. "No," I reached for one "but I think it's time to-"

A horrified scream that could have only belonged to Beatrice cut me off, but then abruptly ended after a few loud pops. Jenny's eyebrows knitted together in concern. My brain was too slow to process what the noises had been. If I had only reacted sooner, I think Jenny's brains might not have landed on the beautiful pink and white cupcakes. I could have pulled her into the protection of the kitchen. But instead, I was reaching for a cupcake, instead of my friend.