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jcd kerwin

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14 February, 2016

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fiction, prose, storyteller, writing

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That Leftover Taste in Your Mouth

That Leftover Taste in Your Mouth
JCD Kerwin

“Well, I’m leaving you now.”

The comment was so unabashedly inserted into the atmosphere that I spat out my coffee.

I brushed spilt java off the front of my shirt. It wasn’t a complete waste; the coffee was leftover from the evening before. It was bitter and burned.

I turned to my wife. “You what?”

She stood by the kitchen door, two suitcases at her feet and a frown on her face.

“I’m leaving you, Jack,” she repeated. She exhaled annoyance and brushed brown hair from her face. “It’s over.”

I stood up so quickly, I knocked over the chair. “What? What are you talking about?”

She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “You ever get it when you’re constantly fighting with yourself? Like, you are watching a movie of your life and desperately screaming at the screen, hoping a situation changes, but it won’t because it’s a movie?”

I stared blankly. Toast crumbs stuck to the corners of my mouth.

She shifted her weight. “Well, I’m doing something about this movie. I’m changing the direction.”

“But, I don’t understand! What brought this on?”

“Brought it on? Nothing brought it on. It’s not as if I suddenly got sick. This has been brewing below the surface for a while, Jack.”

I desperately looked around the kitchen, as if I hoped the appliances would come to my aid.

“Well, why haven’t you mentioned anything before?”

She sighed. “It wouldn’t have mattered.”

“It would have mattered to me!” I exclaimed.

She leaned over to pick up the suitcases. “I knew you’d make a scene,” she mumbled.

“Me? But why are you leaving? At least tell me why! Let’s talk about this,” I spluttered, flailing my arms.

“There’s nothing to talk about. I just don’t think the magic is there anymore.”

“You want magic? I’ll become a magician!”

“Jack,” she said sternly, “there’s nothing to be done. I’ve made up my mind.”

“Linda, please!”

“Goodbye, Jack.” She turned on her heel and left.

The screen door slammed back into place. Her car roared to life and then faded.

I stared at the spot she was in and then to the plant on the windowsill. I couldn’t tell what it was any longer; its leaves had long since browned and shriveled. Linda had given up on it. I had continued to water it even though it seemed fruitless. Now, a small green bud poked through the dirt.

I gazed into the backyard. The taste of burnt coffee lingered on my tongue.

February 2016

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jcd kerwin

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11 September, 2015

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fiction, prose

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Utopia Published

Hey, today “Utopia” was published in Pankhearst magazine. (A very hardcore, raw magazine, which is right up my alley. Check them out. They’re hella cool.)

Check it out: Utopia in Pankhearst

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jcd kerwin

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30 August, 2015

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non-fiction, prose, self-portrait, storyteller

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Mumblestumble

Sometimes it’s hard to be me.

Mumblestumble
JCD Kerwin

The journal page reflects the white like car high beams. The bottle grins at me, beckoning that I take another sip. Just one more and you’ll go numb, it says.

Write it down. Keep a journal, he says. Breathe. Remember “the timeline.” Step back. Don’t forget your “worry time.” You’re you, remember? You’ve got to stop doubting yourself. Stop thinking everyone’s out to get you; stop judging…And whatever bullshit he’s told me this week.

I bite the pen and hope the ink runs down my throat.

These orange bottles line up like chess pieces. Their names are still a mystery to my simple tongue. I spin each bottle so I can’t see the labels. As if that somehow hides the fact I’m insane. These pawns are out to get me.

My heart pounds too hard. I’m told its panic attacks. I thought it was hip-hop, rock and roll; thought it was palpitations from the headphones over my ears. Breathe; remember to breathe, he says.

I can’t breathe in the day. I can’t breathe the same air as the people I knock shoulders with on the street. I just gasp for air like I’ve been plucked from a fishbowl. I’m drowning in humanity.

My existentialism is showing. Let me tuck in my brain.

You can catch me high on life one minute and drowning in a puddle of my own creation the next. I float up and down like a hot air balloon. The more intelligent a person, the more depressed they are, he says. I must be Neil deGrasse Tyson. Write it down.

In the middle of the night I’m alone. In the middle of the night, I stare at the wall and listen to monsters try to convince me to take the leap. I scream but it comes out silent. It’s like being trapped in a box at the bottom of the ocean. Hello to the hammerheads.

I spin a couple pill bottles. The tabs rattle and I pop the tops. Dose One should happen at dinner time….Fuck that.

(August 2015)

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jcd kerwin

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10 June, 2015

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fiction, prose, storyteller, writing

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George

George
JCD Kerwin

George doesn’t eat anything except Cheerios. He says the rings remind him of Infinity and how the world continues to move even when you don’t want it to. He finds the circles fascinating—they move, twirling in his milk, getting older and soggier just like the earth. The twirling of the earth will continue long after George is gone. Does anyone care that it will not stop—even briefly—when they cease to be?

George’s mother said, once, that if you believe in God you will go to Heaven. George went to his uncle’s funeral. His uncle was in a box. In the dirt. He hadn’t gone anywhere, George thought. Did she mean that Heaven was in the ground? He did not know.

George likes going to the park to feed the birds and watch the children on the swings. One day, someone called police officers. Now he is not allowed to watch the children. He only thought it was amazing they could swing so high. He could never swing so high. George thought maybe he could pick up some pointers. But now he isn’t allowed to watch them. So now he has no idea how to swing high enough to reach the stars. That’s all George wants to do.

There are plastic replicas of the solar system sticky-tacked to his ceiling. They glow a long time when George keeps the lights on before he goes to sleep. George does not sleep well. He dreams of giant bugs chasing him. Sometimes they catch him and eat his limbs. He does not like the dream. He does not know what it means.

George’s mother takes him to see a man every Tuesday. He is a nice man, but asks too many questions. He is as old as his mother. George wonders if they are dating.

One day George’s mother does not wake to give him his Cheerios. He called his doctor. An ambulance came. George’s house was full of many people for the next few days. Some of them were unfamiliar faces. They buried George’s mother on a Friday in the rain. George wondered if she was in Heaven with his uncle.

They sent George to a special apartment building, full of people like him, his doctor said. He likes to sit by the window and watch the ducks in the pond. He likes that he can see the stars from his bedroom window. He doesn’t need the sticky-tacked plastic replicas anymore. He wonders if his mother was wrong; maybe that is Heaven instead.

He dreams about flying on insects now. They carry him away to Mars.

June 2015