The Christmas Photo

I sat down in one of those plastic waiting seats at Sears Portrait Studio. It was near the end of October so far as I could figure judging by my photo waiting compatriots - a woman in her thirties, and her four kids. She was trying to herd her droves of children into costumes with the promise of an ice cream cone or a Beanie Baby from Hallmark, or so I assumed. I try not to listen to families; they make me sad. I’ve always wanted one, but at thirty-nine going to the bar every Friday and Saturday night. I’ve had a few close calls, but they were just that – close.

At thirty I had stopped paying attention to the date. The leaves had changed color and NBC's fall lineup was finally hitting its stride, that's all I knew, which was plenty. It meant that soon the marigolds would be gone, and I'd stop taking walks in the park. It meant that they'd turn on the heat lamps at the train stations. It meant that you could buy Christmas cards with your picture on them at Sears Portrait Studio for a discounted pre-holiday rate.

I had a few done up every year, and every year I though that the next I'd go somewhere that could afford the apostrophe after "Sears," showing possession, but when it came to it, there were no "Sears' Portrait Studios" with such a deal. So, there I sat, next to the woman with too many kids to know what to do with.

They called my name, “Stephen,” and I stood up with a squeak, Christmas-crimson turtleneck clashing horribly with fall’s burnt orange. I thought about how long it had been since my last photograph – a year almost to the day, I’d wager. I thought about how a year’s worth of faces was lost - those silly replacement glasses that I had to wear when I slept on the old ones, that one time I had laughed so hard at Jerry’s joke about the peanut butter. I thought about how I would never remember thirty-nine, except for that turtleneck against the off-season backdrop, and how I had blinked in the picture too.

Fantod Fire, Water, Burn (now with a mixtape for you!)

If you'll excuse the cliché, I've felt like a fish out of water as of late. If you won't excuse it, I submit to you these alternatives: a rug off of the floor, and a hipster at a Creed concert. I, personally, blame my own special form of fantod wanderlust; that is to not be home, or even to be someone else entirely. Not that I particularly dislike either, I'd just like the experience. Well, most days it is the experience - some are not so lucky.

Sometimes life can get so stuffy, like the attic room you're forced to store your furs in the year you can't afford cold storage. Heat is a dangerous beast. It makes you languid, it droops your flower's petals, makes you so thirsty that you turn brown, shrivel and catch fire. While often it serves to burn away the excess, to melt off winter's pudge, it is known to take you with it. Some days I fear that it has taken far too much of me.

Now that my temp job is over, I'm left looking for more work. Day to day money seems to be the biggest worry. College debt is a terrible thing. Every time I feel that I've learned a lesson I relapse, though I know, somewhere, that I'm getting better. It's just hard sometimes. I'm sure that there isn't an adult out there who doesn't understand, still, I'm losing

sleep over it these days. Try as hard as I might to get some sleep, something always keeps me up. It's the sound of someone's cash register. I know that I'm going to be better off than I was last time when I finally make it back, but will it be enough?

Still, I burn in my second story room. The new job will be here soon if the temp people are to be believed. Two weeks of unemployment in this economic climate certainly isn't terrible, still it makes one restless, makes one question and lose faith.

It rained today, though it did very little to restore my hope in things. My family is at odds with each other, and what with the annual family vacation this weekend, I don't know what to do. The escapist in me tells me to run away, because it isn't all my battle. I live in this household in the way I feel will be easiest for everyone - I stay in my room, out of the way. Or, I try, but it seems that staying out of the way, and doing what is needed when asked serves to make certain parties think me ungrateful, though I explain in buying my own food, riding my bike for miles upon miles daily, that I just don't want to be a burden.

I am not the sole reason my family is having difficulty. Though I did not hear everything, there were screams from the kitchen, and my sister was told to find a new place to live. I worry about

her. She doesn't understand cause and effect, and some days I fear that she never will. She asks for the world, but before putting her hand out to accept her prize, she fetters it, and slings it across the back of her mustang, and rides off into the desert without a glance back. It seems the price on her head is too much for my mother to handle any more. I have no doubt that she'll leave, but with no money to her name and no job, I can't see her getting too far.

I hope that we survive this weekend. I can't deal with fighting, I just can't. Camping leads to cabin fever, which makes everyone irritable, and the heat is just so dangerous. I feel my sides curling, and what's left of the childish crayon on my paper facade melting.

I feel tied to this place by guilt that is so very hard to get over most days. It is easier to burn in the heat of my attic room. I suppose that there is a certain fear in there somewhere, coupled with the guilt of being of age and at home. There lies the wanderlust, I imagine. I need to go, but never can.

And there is so much more to talk about, but this will have to suffice. This is long enough already.

Luke warm regards,

Caleb

P.S. fantod - a state of extreme nervousness or restlessness

P.P.S. Here, I made something for you. It's a mix entitled Music Therapy. I made it some time ago, and never gave it away. For a long time there, I lauded it as my favorite mix, and it eventually got lost in a stack of cds. I found it today, and it needs a home. Please, treat it well. If you'd like a full size album cover, just shoot me an email at caleb.s.lesher@gmail.com

Flash Fiction - "No More"

I try to wash you from my skin in the night air. The vile stench of you consists mostly of Japanese Cherry Blossom lotion the likes of which I gave my ex one time, because I thought that she would smell beautiful. She did. So do you, in that way that fragile things are beautiful. I shouldn't nuzzle into the pools of your clavicle anymore.

"Don't think about how it would taste, that lotion, under your quivering tongue."

Like the bitter silk of a lavender tea.

I pump my petals, urging myself forward through the drizzle which can only be perceived around the edges of Four A.M.'s nitid street lamps. The cool summer air touches me like I want to be touched. It slowly tugs at the sides of my clothing, the night's hands clutching to the cotton through its night terrors. And it nests itself on my breast.

I try to rid you forever from my skin, but can't with my senses ensnared.

"Don't think about what she did. Don't think about what you're doing."

I sit up a long time before going to bed thinking about my designated distraction, how convenience was a god at whose alter I knelt. Then, kicking off my shoes, I quoth "no more."

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door - only this, and nothing more."

Be that word our sign of parting,

Caleb

P.S. nitid - bright, lustrous