An Unusual Depiction of Love, Grief, and Desire, Katy Comber

The Days

by Katy Comber

Day 1

Chelsea woke up grinning from last night’s dream of him. Energized and ready to face the world, she sprung out of bed and hopped in the shower.

Day 374

Chelsea woke up, still shaking from her nightmare. Not another day. The thought of getting out of bed settled on her as if it were sheet of chainmail. Her to-do list consisted of 1) sit up. 2) remove blankets. 3) place feet on floor. The list swirled around for a moment, broke, and halted. Chelsea closed her eyes.

Day 503

Chelsea woke up with a yearning to be anywhere but here… anywhere but where she would think of him. She took out her suitcase, threw some random things in, picked up her jar of tips--the amount in that jar would chose her next destination. She needed to go. Now.

Day 1

With a bounce in her step, Chelsea flitted around her cozy studio apartment and threw on the outfit she selected so carefully the night before. Today was the day. Ray would find out that she wanted him as more than a friend and confidant. Chelsea needed to look her best.

Day 374

Ray--his deep brown eyes appeared and gazed in her mind the moment Chelsea tried for a dreamless sleep.

Day 503

Ray wouldn’t haunt her in… Philadelphia, one way ticket: $67, of that Chelsea was certain.

Day 1

Chelsea bit into a hot, buttery croissant and nearly hummed to herself with pleasure-- everything tasted amazing, looked amazing, sounded amazing… just amazing, like Ray; he too, was amazing.

Day 374

Chelsea’s stomach churned at the memory of his eyes, and she was reminded of the last thing she ate--a cup of lime Jello from the nurse with the concerned but friendly eyes. Lime Jello had been her favorite, but now the thought of it...Chelsea lurched toward the bathroom.  

Day 503

The aroma of fresh bagels and percolating coffee wafted over, and Chelsea counted her change--she had enough for a week of small meals and shelter, the closet of a room she inquired about online looked promising for $80. She needed a job as soon as she got off the train.  

Day 1

The skirt Chelsea selected so carefully 12 hours before rustled softly by her ankles, the breeze swept through her loose curls, and the vibrant leaves seemed to brighten with every step. Autumnal New York was the place to be in love. Chelsea could see herself living here forever.

Day 376

The bathrobe clung to Chelsea’s body, and she was sure it smelled of body odor and dried remnants of the time she threw up, Was that last night? The night before? and didn’t quite make it.

Day 503

The jeans Chelsea had thrown on in her urge to get out the door as quickly as possible flared out and covered her favorite flats; the hem was tattered and wet from the slush of leftover snow, black and polluted.

Day 1

The office building where Chelsea and Ray worked was a converted old factory in which three companies shared space; Chelsea worked in the open and airy publisher's’ office on the top floor with views of the meatpacking district--Ray worked in the accounting office on the third floor, today the exposed brick walls and large windows looked spectacularly beautiful, and Chelsea felt the incredible blessing of her life, her dream job, her City.

Day 376

The tiny apartment was dark, Chelsea’s black out curtains had not moved in days, dust settled on the collected NYC chotskies covering the empty spaces in front of the hundreds of books her parents groaned about on Moving Day three years ago--the books, wall-to-wall/floor-to-ceiling shelves, a bed, a small table and a mini fridge--all she needed to be content, and content she was until…the blackness came back and the gatekeeper of memories guarded Chelsea as she closed her eyes and slept.

Day 503

The train station whirred and hummed with the typical organized chaos of a place that is routine for some and extraordinary for others. After parking herself into a seat with its back against the wall, Chelsea opened her laptop and began to research jobs and rooms for rent online--her sudden disappearance from the publishing office would not result in a job recommendation, she would have to get a waitressing job like the one she had until last night when Ray walked in with a date holding his hand and beaming up at him… Chelsea wouldn’t be able to count on her boss there either. The clattering dishes and her hollow yelp echoed from the darkness that filtered her mind. The gatekeeper did not resist as memories flooded over her and adrenaline shot through her body. A couple of men who had been staring at her moments earlier shifted their eyes away at the transformation of a plain-faced beauty hidden in lumpy clothes and a curtain of tangled black hair to a quaking girl; one man, who continued to stare, empathetically considered the ramifications of drugs.

Day 1

The coffee cart had a line, and there Ray stood, waiting with two coffees and a white sack clutched between the containers in a flimsy cardboard carrier--he was so generous and kind, he knew how she took her coffee, he had listened to Chelsea over months of lunches and coffee dates. She talked to Ray about her life, her family; and as the two became friends, she disclosed the recent disintegration of her relationship with her high school sweetheart, the man she had intended to marry, the man for whom she had saved herself, a promise the two high school students solemnly made to their youth group leader Sophomore year... Ray knew everything about her and there he stood, waiting, still… Chelsea felt her heart flip.

Day 376

Chelsea felt her heart flip... the darkness was receding… Ray.

Day 503

Chelsea felt her heart flip, hairs on her arm stood on edge at the thought of him. She closed her laptop and swiftly packed it into the backpack by her feet; she began to pace as she waited for her train, her escape, to come to its platform and take her away.

Day 1

Chelsea grinned up at Ray and reached for her coffee. I want you, she whispered in his ear. His brown eyes widened and danced.

Days 2-364

Ray was the perfect gentleman, he was kind and loving, he listened to Chelsea, he loved Chelsea, he wanted Chelsea… he tried to be patient, Chelsea had made him wait so long, when she was late for their first date, he shouted because he was concerned… when men looked at her, he yelled because he didn’t like her being objectified like that, he was protecting her, when he… it was because he loved her, he loved her, he loved her… he--

Day 365-373

A one year anniversary... Lingerie too sheer… Lipstick too red...Darkness… memories--blocked-- The nurse with the kind eyes… lime Jello spooned into a purple and yellow mouth that cannot open too wide.

Day 503 11:01 am

Chelsea’s edge began to fade away as she paused and looked at the ticket in her shaking hand. Here she was. She was running from her dreams, from the life she built into a LIFE, not just from hurt and pain. Fight or flight wrestled inside her. Seeing Ray last night with that beautiful girl… Chelsea wondered, for the first time, about the girl. Flight. Fight. Flight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Chelsea wondered about the girl.

Day 503 11:07 am

Chelsea left the station. The crisp New York City air pierced her lungs, and Chelsea breathed as though she had been holding her breath for over a year.

Day 503 11:01 am

Hurt and pain enveloped her.

Day 503 11:02 am

With one step in front of the other, Chelsea chose to leave the platform. Chelsea chose Fight. Chelsea chose to--

Days 503 11:02 am-present

Chelsea chose to live.  

Two Strangers Meet in the Woods, Katy Comber

The Destructive Development of Somebody
by Katy Comber

Owls hooted somewhere in the murky fog. Limbs reached out for Tom as his legs pumped him forward. Distance away, and not destination, was Tom’s goal. That creature. Woman? Thing?  The shriek echoed in Tom’s ears. A branch caught his cloak and tore its right elbow. Brown strips of fabric clung to the wooden hand, and Tom ran with only one concern--to get away.

“Umph!”

“Ouch!”

“What the h-”

“Who are y-”

Tom straightened himself quickly and his eyes swept the area nervously. A howl sounded. Distant. Approaching.

“Got to go!”

“Wait! Where are you going?”

“No time to explain.”

Tom thought for a split second. The man he had mistaken for a log and tripped over moments before might delay his hunter. Maybe, with this substitute, she would be satisfied. Tom shuddered. No. Leaving this man to be a sacrifice would be just as evil as the act that would fall upon him if she crossed the man’s path. In one quick motion, Tom spun around, reached out in the fog to grab an unseen hand, and pulled the man up to stand. Before the man could comprehend what was happening, he was being pulled through the dank forest. The man’s short and chubby legs stumbled to keep up with the long-legged madman dragging him the dense woods. His breath caught and stopped. His chest burned. His stomach heaved. Must keep moving; the idea was clear though the reason was not.

“Where. Are. We. Going?”

“I don’t know. I got lost miles from here.”

“What?!”

The short man halted. He reminded himself to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Tom looked down at him quickly and returned his gaze East. There it was again. The howl. Was it further than before? Tom wasn’t sure.

“Did you hear that?”

“That is why we’re running.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yes.”

“But that’s just a--”

“Don’t say it.”

“Then, you must be a writer? Artist? Musician”

“I dabble.”

“Right. I understand. She found you didn’t she? If anyone utters her name in a creative’s presence she will appear. So, she’s come to the forest of Criminal Creatures to hunt. Must be desperate.”

“I figured you knew that.”

“Why?”

“Why else would you be laying around in a log costume?”

“I was hiding from something else.”

“What?”

“Boredom.”

“Okay. Explain.”

Tom pointed his toes west and readied himself to move, but stilled his body enough to listen to the man’s story.

“Well. I guess I should start by telling you my name.”

“Okay.”

“Nobody.”

“Nobody.”

“Yep. My name is Nobody.”

As the man spoke, he opened his long brown coat. Nothing but fabric.

“I feel a body. I am short with chubby legs and a large barrel gut, but to everyone else I’m just a--”

“Head. I’m talking to a floating head. But, I dragged you. I pulled your arm.”

Nobody rolled up his sleeves. Nothing but air. Tom waved his hand through where an arm should be. Nobody chuckled as though it tickled, but remained silent.

“Are you a pass--”

“Passerbeing. Yes, unfortunately, I am.”  

Nobody began to recite:

meandering in shadows cast by resplendence,

he’s armored in scales of dark transcendence

his eyes, ablaze forever confounding,

notice only flaws in his surroundings

his diet strict of olive pits

curdled milk, and satiric wits

he is The

“Passerbeing.” Tom finished for Nobody in a hushed voice. Suddenly standing still felt very wrong. But, Tom’s feet could not move. The Passerbeing removed his wooden cloak. The head remained midair, its eyes narrowing. Hungry.

“Tell me a story, Tom. Satire. I can sense your brain pulsating with irony.”

“Maybe because of our current situation. You, see, Passerbeing. I could not tell a story if death commanded it and the world depended on my doing so.”

“My, this is an interesting forest. does she know what you are?”

“I doubt it. She has similar senses to yours. She can sniff out talent from miles away, but a terrible lack of patience. Even for a Plagiarismystic. I think it could be all that pressure for a sequel. She bled that poor writer dry, though. No chance of a new story there.”

A howl sounded. She’d heard her name. Tom couldn’t run under the Passerbeing’s gaze. The Plagiarismystic closed in. Her presence made the forest shimmer with frost.

“Back off from my writer, Nobody The Passerbeing. This one is oozing with potential. His blood is singing with untold stories.” The Plagiarismystic’s eyes glowed in a green haze, they locked on Tom’s forehead as fangs began to protrude from her wide mouth.  

“Ah, Nancy. I should have recognized that howl.”

“Shut your drooling mouth, Nobody. I found him first. He’s mine.”

Tom began to giggle. The sight of the two predators arguing over him was slightly flattering. The Passerbeing eyed Tom and began to laugh as well.

“What? What’s so funny?” Nancy’s green eyes widened; by now, they took up half of her porcelain face. Instead of waiting for an answer, Nancy threw a spindly arm around Tom’s waist and drew him to her. Tom had no chance to scream or beg. The fangs latched into Tom’s forehead, and she began to drink. Moments after, after Tom fell dead, Nancy wiped the corners of her mouth and sighed. The stories inside Tom’s head would make her rich and one of the best known writers in the world.

“You look happy.” Nobody remarked. The chuckles from a minute ago lingered on his smiling lips, “What did he have in there?”

“Oh its fabulous. It’s about this--” Nancy’s stomach began to churn. Her tongue swelled. The flesh of her body ignited with irritation. “It’s about…” Nancy’s tongue twisted and tied. Her eyes looked to Nobody in alarm.

Nobody began to laugh and sing,

cowering in a tower near,

he is muted, his voice unclear

balladry and harmony grasp his tongue

but fear renders art unsung

he dines on pages of dictionaries worn

and thoughts of pure, unmasked scorn

he is The Perfectionistcary

Tom, is The Perfectionistcary…

Nobody’s mirth at the sight of horror and the grotesque, transformed him. As Nancy choked on the last story she would ever steal, Nobody began to grow. He had hidden from Boredom and found Destruction. His mission was complete. Limbs sprouted from his floating head. Large feet and strong arms became visible. Through the pain and suffering of others, Nobody became Somebody.

Imaginary Friend, Katy Comber

I Will Call Her Mara

by Katy Comber

I will call her Mara.

Mara clamors! and gambols! and spins!

in my mind

when desperation grows  

for solitude

for grace

for restoration

my imaginary friend is L O U D

I will call her Mara.

Mara cautions my bravery

Mara calls me Burden

Mara nestles into my reluctance

and Mara wraps herself

in a quilt of my regrets

I will call her Mara

As I cling to the hope

of Naomi

Ruth 1:19-21

So they both went until they came to Bethlehem. And when they had come to Bethlehem, all the city was stirred because of them, and the women said, "Is this Naomi?" 20She said to them, "Do not call me Naomi [delighted, lovely]; call me Mara [bitter], for the Almighty has dealt very bitterly with me. 21"I went out full, but the LORD has brought me back empty.”…

Shadow and Imaginary Friend, Katy Comber

The Dream House Chronicles, Part 3: Shadow and Bright

By Katy Comber

“Shadow!” Maggie felt Bright’s presence before he shouted across the cafe. The nickname made her cringe. Heads swerved in wonder at who could attract such an exuberant response from the man with the radiant smile. Disappointment and vague curiosity hung in the air when several pairs of eyes swept over to view a gaunt lady in dripping snow boots and a heavy cable knit sweater. The round-faced, perfectly styled, brunette behind the counter eyed the girl and thought, must be his cousin. She sniffed warily as the gorgeous man swept the woman into a generous hug and beamed down at her. The woman’s bashful returning grin made the barista second guess the relationship between the couple that caused such a stir in the otherwise quiet cafe. A writer in the corner cleared his throat and pulled on an extra large pair of headphones with contempt of the interruption. The other three customers smirked in empathy with the writer, but the two in the center of the cafe paid them no attention.

“Shadow’s a name for a dog.” Maggie grumbled into Bright’s leather coat and breathed in his familiar scent of peppermint and expensive cologne.

“Shadow’s the name your brother gave you for following us everywhere. I can’t help but love it.” Bright chuckled back into Maggie’s freshly washed hair. At least she showered. He couldn’t help the relief as the thought raced through his mind.

“I’m buying you lunch.” Bright Fulton jaunted over to the counter to order before his friend could utter any objection.

Much to the barista’s discouragement, the attractive man ignored her fluttering lashes and perfected pout. His eyes only left his oldest friend to scan the specials scribbled colorfully on a chalkboard and there they planted as he read his order to a disgruntled barista. As he waited for the food, he leaned back on the bar and made obnoxious facial expressions at the amused girl he hadn’t seen in years. The dark circles under her dim hazel eyes and the wispy hair tied in a careless knot on top of Maggie’s head, took Bright by surprise when he first eyed her in the window moments before. It’s no wonder. Bright thought grimly on the conversation he’d had with Maggie’s brother the day before.

“She’s worse, Bright. Please. You have to see her. Cheer her up? You know how much she would love to see you.” Fred whispered into the phone as his sister lay in the darkness of the only room in their house without glaring and glorious natural light; the bathtub, clawfooted, deep, and unworking, had served as Maggie’s retreat for days. “Davis. He--”

“I know. I'll be in town by morning. Get her to that pretentious hipster cafe on Main St. for lunch?”

“If it’s so pretentious, why in the world would you eat there?” Fred laughed.

“Maggie likes their pickles.”

“You remember the strangest things, man. Okay. Lunch it is. She hasn’t left the house since… but she’ll get there to see you. I know it.”

And here they were. Eating sandwiches called The Faulkner and The Will Smith with a complimentary tea cup of pickled cucumbers, peppers, and carrots. A tea cup. That is not enough. As the idea dawned to Bright, a sly grin crossed his face. The dark cloud that had begun to settle with the thought of the previous weeks’ struggles dissipated. Bright whipped around and startled the barista behind him.
“Could I let you in on a secret?” he whispered, conspiring with the starry-eyed girl behind the counter. She giggled and pushed his wildly gesturing hands away from a bright glass jar of artisanal pickles before it tipped over. Then pressing a finger to her perfectly-glossed lips, she agreed to her role in the plot, got to work.   

 

As he brought over their lunch, and Maggie wondered at the number of baskets and when Bright placed them down, she chuckled her first sincere laugh since, well, for a long time. One of the baskets was brimming with pickles.

“That sound. I’ve missed that.”

I have too. Maggie thought.

“I’ve missed you.” Maggie said. Maggie’s smile brightened and the inquisitive eyes of the barista took in the woman’s transformation. Plain old Maggie had lit up the room. She radiated with beauty. The barista looked away from the couple then and focused on the irritated and mousy looking gentleman attempting to order a coffee, tea, something.

Bright looked on as the Maggie he’d always adored appeared before him. His breath caught. Then, something, cracked. Maggie’s smile wobbled a bit. Maggie’s smile disappeared.

“Shad-Maggie, hey, hey. Mags--” Bright started as the flash of the old Maggie struck him like lightening and just as suddenly went back into hiding. The sight infuriated Bright. Selfish bastard. He thought of Davis. The boy who had charmed every heart in their small town including a majority of the girls’ lacrosse team and one, Bright Fulton.   

“He’s gone, Bright.” Maggie shuddered. “I haven’t said that yet. Not out loud. First step is admitting it. Right?” Maggie’s lip curled in an half attempt of a sarcastic grin. The result was simultaneously endearing and awful. Bright grabbed his friend’s trembling hand and wondered at the last time she ate.

“Let’s talk about that later. Right now. Food. That is our objective. Your obscene amount of pickles are waiting.”  

When the first shock of vinegar hit her palate, Maggie shivered and wondered about the last time she ate. Fred had been so patient with her, but the twenty year old’s culinary abilities only extended as far as an experimental dish featuring Ramen and peanut butter, and barbeque sauce on Kraft Mac N Cheese. As his older sister by five years and only parental figure after Daphne and River left to establish an artist commune, Maggie knew that Fred was trying and that the role-reversal of third child taking care of first child had been awkward for him. It would have been awkward for Maggie too had she been half-aware of the days that flew by while she sat in the dark and coffin-like structure of her parents old tub. Was it dark for you, Davis?

Bright saw the girl shudder. He looked over her limp hair and frail arms. The circles under her eyes grew darker. Purple. The lines around her mouth creased as she chewed. Her skin was so pale. How long had she been lying in darkness? How long had she resisted sunshine? She used to have pigtails and climb trees better than any boy in the neighborhood. She was the girl to whom I confessed everything. My keeper of secrets. My beloved and most trusted friend. She would step into a room and everyone would wonder how someone like me got to hang out with someone like her. Now she’s… no, don’t go there. Bright quaked slightly as the word thundered in his mind, a skeleton. Without Davis, Maggie was attempting nothingness.

Maggie and Davis Gibson, born 21 minutes apart, had been inseparable for nearly 21 years. When Maggie graduated from their college and moved back home a year early, Davis would text her pictures of her favorite spots on campus and send her coded messages in a language that drove their brother Fred wild with envy. One day Davis called, left a breathless message about a fantasy French girl he’d met on the R5, and that was it. Davis disappeared.

Two weeks later, a postcard from Matchmaker Realty: Your Dreams Are Never Too Good To Be True came in the mail. Neatly scribbled under the note: Sorry for your loss. was the name Frida Starling. Fred noticed it first. As the postcard grazed his fingers he knew two things: Davis was dead and one day he would live in a house with a porch swing and wine barrel flooring. Fred wouldn’t let his sister touch the postcard, but he gripped it before her widening eyes and asked questions neither of them could answer.

When they attempted to call Matchmaker Realty an automated message stated the their call would be answered in 476 days, 13 hours, and 2 minutes. They laughed and then wept over the obvious prank. This began the days that passed for Maggie in the darkness of the master bathroom. This began the days of consuming wonder. This began the days of Maggie’s deterioration.

Fred hung up the phone from his call with Bright. Maggie overheard the entire conversation. Bright’s voice over the speaker in the office adjacent to the bathroom lulled Maggie into a deep sleep. In her dreams she saw Bright’s radiant smile. His bear hugs and his concern. His crazy faces. She dreamt of a basket of her favorite pickles and Bright cracking jokes and flirting with an oblivious barista. She dreamt of sitting with Bright one last time and then, when the realization struck her oldest friend that he was lunching with a corpse, Maggie felt something hook inside her chest and pull upward. Maggie felt herself lifting into the sky. Maggie dreamt of flying.