My latest Novella

Chapter 1- An Introduction to our lovers

Her Face always found that spot in his chest, where they felt like they were one for that moment. They sat happily on a shabby couch in a roach infested apartment, Although there were gunshots outside and crack heads laying in the street, that spot was their little bit of heaven. What happened on the street where they lived did not matter as long as they were together. Her paintings were hung in no frames all around the apartment adding to the atmosphere. He loved to stare into her mind through her paintings.

Her paintings were morbid to say the least. They were surreal with bodies laid in reds, purples, and blues, touching and feeling each other on found objects. She painted on things he found for her. She painted on pieces of wood, on signs stores threw out. Sometimes she incorporated what the signs said into her work. Bodies hanging off of words, dying or falling and sometimes dead. She did not look like she could produce such dramatic pieces. She was quite ordinary in her appearance, fizzy brown hair, dark brown eyes, and pasty pale white skin with freckles, not much to look at. However she certainly did shine, when she spoke people listened. She was strong, even with her short stature she was bold. That was why he loved her.

She lifted her head and kissed him softly on his full lips. His appearance was very much different from hers. She could stare into his dark eyes for hours. He was very tall, lean and just plain handsome with a richly mixed heritage that you can only find in places like New York or New Orleans. He probably should have been an actor or a model, but he felt he was called to be a poet, more due to his shyness than anything else, lord only knows it has never been the promise of wealth or fame for him at least. He just enjoyed the release, the way his words could form a beat and a feeling, to express his feelings in a way that was beautiful. Just like every good artist he wanted to create beauty. Most people who met him could not understand how he could create such drawn out, beautifully worded poetry, simply because he rarely spoke, he mostly listened. He was never one to start a conversation, but then again he never had to. When you are a beautiful person everyone speaks to you.

He reached over and began stroking her hair. He looked around at what they made together, and he was content. Every where around their 4 room apartment were pieces of them. Photographs of their adventures, paintings, knick knacks he collected, her musical DVDs, and his gangster films every item was evidence that they existed, that this place was theirs. Although he was happy with that he knew she deserved more. He dreamed often of her having the room required to create the gigantic masterpieces he envisioned her creating, while he sat at an oak desk in the next room writing a great American novel with a candle burning next to him. He wanted to take her to all the Broadway shows that she had the albums to; he wanted to buy her fancy clothes and get her hair done. He wanted to give her the life he knew before him.

Chapter 2- Love is but an illusion

Love is a funny emotion, it can be perceived as a real thing as something that is tangible but its not. You can not touch it or feel it. It can not feed you, it can not clothe you. All it can do is give you a certain light headed feeling, Pot can do that too.

Lovers will tell you it's real. They will tell you can see it. They will tell you that you can have it too. However, if you approach them after their lover has gone away, they will tell you that they never said that. They will be cynical and they will tell you as I tell you now. It is an illusion, a fairy tale or a Myth. They will tell you that part of their life is over and it never happened. They will tell you that their old lover was not right. That they were crazy and they were unhappy. You and I know that they did not feel that way when they were involved, but they feel that way now. When Now comes, then no longer matters, and we all live in the now and the then is a distant memory.

Some Lovers become content. They become used to each other, those are the ones that get married and have babies, often not in that order. However, they lose their love over time. The stress of love gets to them. Love is no longer a high; it is something that needs to be done. They have to love each other, they have to! If they don't love each other, how can they live? How can their children be ok? So love becomes a responsibility.

No! You can not run away to California to become a porn star! What will little Billy think of his old man? Not only what will he think, what will little Billy eat? His mother can not support him on her own. So no! You can not become a porn star. Nope, can't try and be an actor either. But the factory that produces staplers and other office supplies is hiring. Lawyers buy staplers from that factory. That Factory will supply your family with medical benefits and it is an honest living. Something any man can be proud of. You will make Staplers! Then if you work hard and make a million staplers, they may promote you to stapler supervisor! Then you can make enough money to send Billy to a private school, no more public schools for Billy. Billy will wear a uniform everyday and will conform to a system! Billy will learn how to be like his Dad. See Love turns from romance to a grand responsibility, something you and Billy can both be proud of!

Chapter 3- Love, Chicken and Bargains

"Sweetheart!" he called to her with his head in the refrigerator.

"What do want for dinner?" She looked up from no parking sign that she just began painting.

"I don't know, surprise me!" He continued to stick his head deeper into the fridge.

"Ok, well there is not much to choose from. Chicken or beef? I will be happy to cook either for you."

"I want vinegar!" and she went back to painting.

He looked at the wall. He saw her painting; the painting was of a man and a woman. The woman was red; she was kissing the man on the mouth. She was crouched over and full of raw energy and emotion, the man was blue and falling on his knees as she sucked the life out of him. He looked dead, or dying.

"Babe, you can not eat vinegar for dinner." He said with a little frustration in his voice.

She asked "why not?"

"Because it will hurt your belly."

She looked at him like he was speaking Chinese "What? No it won't. I have a belly like a tank, I can handle it."

He looked at her and shook his head and continued to search the fridge.

He looked at her, and said "Honey, I am going to make a deal with you. I am going to make sweet and sour chicken, with rice and a salad. Sweet and sour sauce has vinegar in it, I will dress the salad with oil and vinegar and then I will give you a cup of vinegar on the side, for you to do what ever you want with. Does that sound good babe?"

He felt a little annoyed with his bargain, but he loved her and wanted only to see her smile. Her face lit up and she said "That sounds perfect! I don't know how you always know what I want but you do, you do!" She grabbed him around his neck and kissed him on the mouth.

He stood at the stove and prepared dinner. Then he set the table with candle light and plastic silverware. Dinner was his favorite time of the day. It was the only time he could get her to talk to him. Not that she had problems speaking to him, but her mind was always in so many places at once. Only at dinner could he get her to stay on track and pay complete attention to him. He loved the fact that she was so adventurous and scattered, he felt that she needed him, although he knew she could survive on her own. He did not like to think about that.

"Darling! Dinner is prepared" He made his voice sound like a butler.

She lifted her head from her painting and stumbled to the table covered in paint. "So, did you get any of the paint on the painting?"

She always got paint all over her face neck and hands. She laughed at his joke and sat down. "Baby, don't you want to go to the bathroom and clean up a bit?"

"No, Vincent Van Gough never had to, so why should I?"

he snickered at her "Cause Vincent Van Gough also had gotten Lead poisoning and cut off a part of his ear during an epileptic seizure. Now baby, do you want that?" He always answered her even if it was a stupid question or a silly statement. He always gave her that respect.

"Now, go wash up. I will help you." He took her to the bathroom and washed her face and scrubbed her hands for her.

Then they sat at dinner and finally ate. "My Dad called today. He said the city is hiring meter maids, why don't we both go and take the test. I am sure that it will pay more than selling my paintings."

He made a face

"I mean, we can do it together. Then we can both go back to school part time and we can make good money" He did not want to work, he wanted to be a writer.

"Babe, I don't want to sell out. Don't you see? We are living the dream."

She looked at him and said "You're living the dream. I'm living on food stamps. We could live better than this. We can still pursue our goals. You could still write your little poems, I could still produce paintings. The only difference will be we could afford materials and not take them from out the garbage. You won't have to go to the bank just to steal a pen! Don't you want more? I do. I know we could have more"

He looked at her, his eyes were glassed over. "What do you mean little poems? My poetry is the one thing that keeps me from slitting my wrists. I am sorry that you can't see that this is paradise. You and me babe. Me and you! We can take over the world. Forget we can, we will, eventually."

"Eventually? Eventually is not good enough for me. Eventually will not feed me today! Look at it realistically! I am an artist, you are a poet. I am not Pablo Picasso and you are not Robert Frost. We may never get any recognition." She was angry and he was getting there.

"Who cares about recognition? We have each other! We make enough to eat, and we pay our rent. What more do we need?" His eyes were beginning to tear.

"What more do we need? Oh my Gosh! Aren't you tired of living like this? I want art supplies! I am tired of wearing the same jeans for years! I want to buy cigarettes! We need air conditioning! Are you not feeling this way? Are you blind?"

"No, I am not blind. I love you. I know things will work themselves out. Our love is strong. Love will keep me cool. I am sorry you don't feel the same way." He stood up and cleaned the table off and blew out the candle she did not even notice he lit. He washed all the dishes and cleaned up the apartment. She just sat at the table in a daze, just staring into blankness.

After he finished all of the chores he sat on the couch, he turned the TV on and faded away. She sat there thinking. Was she too hard on him? She loved the fact that he was so idealistic, but she knew that she wanted more, and he was smart enough to make good money and take care of her. She felt he was holding her back, she was probably right. However she had no right destroying his dreams, she regretted it. She walked behind the couch, and began massaging his shoulders and neck. He did not look at her, he hated that she always thought that would repair the damage. She put her lips to his neck and he continued to be evasive. She kissed along his neck and massaged him. She whispered in his ear that she was sorry. He said nothing back. She walked to the front of the couch and looked in his eyes and sat on his lap and held him. She then kissed his lips and he gave in. He hated giving in to her, he hated that she would forget everything by having sex with him. Sex was not important to him, for him Love was doing for her, not doing her. She felt that sex was her only way of showing him that she loved him. So that was why he gave in.

Chapter 4- Sex as a tool

Sex is a tool that makes person engaged in it believe that they re secure in the relationship a falsified sense of love. People who use sex as a tool understand that sex and love are not the same thing. Those who do not understand are used by the people who do understand.

Those who believe in sex being an expression of Love are either inexperienced or slow learners. Those are our Romeo's and Juliet's. Those are the ones who commit suicide because they believed their sexual escapades were love making sessions and when it is found out otherwise their heart breaks, and no one can truly heal a broken heart, all you can do is put a band-aid on it and move on.

Those who know how to use sex as a tool are the predators; they prey on those who are ignorant to the practice. Those who are ignorant, lose more than just material goods, they lose their dignity, their self respect, their innocence and in the worst case scenario their will to live.

Chapter 5- Pot and Lies

"Hey! Look what I got! We are going to have fun tonight!"

She reached deeply into her jeans and pulled out a $20 bag of pot.

"Where'd you get that?" He looked at her puzzled.

"I had a good day! I sold 2 paintings, today!"

"Really?"

"Yes, Really!"

He knew she was lying, but he could not bring himself to accuse her. He sighed and looked at the wall; he saw a painting of a man curled up in the fetal position clinging tightly to his legs, while a woman in lavenders and greens turned her back to him with her arms folded.

"What are you waiting for? Roll that shit up! Here's a Dutch!"

He began rolling it up and he crumbled the green leaves between his fingers. They felt warm and the aroma filled their small apartment. He looked deeply into her eyes, knowing in his mind that she did not buy that pot. His stomach was turning.

"Can you roll that faster? Please?" She was clueless about his thoughts.

She got up and tossed West Side Story in the VCR.

"Babe, do we have to watch this again?"

She was short with him "Yes!"

He looked at her painting again and this time he noticed that the man could not breathe.

He lit the freshly rolled blunt, he inhaled deeply it choked him. He began coughing, it tasted dirty. He passed it to her, and she fell into another world, she felt happy.

"Hey, you know we should start selling."

He looked at her.

"Selling what, sweetheart?"

"Trees"

"Babe, we can not start selling pot!"

"Why not? I mean Kareem sells, and he owns his own house in Brooklyn."

She was getting excited over the prospect.

"Do you know how much a house costs in Brooklyn? Over a million dollars! He doesn't work a nine to five either; all he does is sell Pot. We can do that too!"

"No, we can't! We are not going to be drug dealers! Baby, now you are talking craziness!"

"No! It's not crazy! Kareem makes doe. I want a piece of that action. We can even grow it ourselves. Listen, art is not going to get us out of the gutter. But if drugs will, I will sell drugs! We can make a mint. Everyone out here is a potential customer. Art will only take us so far, but Pot, Coke, heroin, Crack... Look around you! We can be successful!"

"With dirty money? Do you really want that kind of success?"

He sighed

"And you consider this the gutter? You consider being with me the gutter?"

"Listen, we need to become business people, that is the only way to survive out here. New York isn’t what it used to be. The rent is sky high! We can not afford it. Let's get up in the world. Just you and me. Let's go places!"

He closed his eyes real tight. He saw her. He loved her, but he was disgusted, he was disgusted with her and he was disgusted with her willingness to sell out for money.

He thought again about how she got that pot, about her admiration for a man who poisons his community. About how she looked up to Kareem, how she probably kissed Kareem with those lips that she was using to tell him her ideas about how those same lips will touch his lips later on in the evening.

He opened his eyes to see her puffing away on that dirty blunt. He looked at her; he tried to look through her.

"I am going to bed, I hope that pot was worth it, but then again you would sell out and be a drug dealer. I wonder what else you would sell. Good night."

He slammed the door, and went to bed.



Chapter 6- Gods gifts, the devils prey

Artists by definition are illusionists. They create something where there was blankness, a gift only possessed by god and those that god deems worthy. whether they paint, sing, dance or write they are creators. They often create beauty, They often create Love. The viewer goes away feeling different for the privilege of viewing true magic.

The ability to create comes with vast responsibility, for when you can create beauty, you can just as easily create ugliness. The artist can poison their own minds, for they themselves are human. They often believe their own magic and as they create the ugliness the ugliness affects them as well.

So often the artist poisons their minds, for with the ability to create comes extreme emotions and belief in ones own fantasies.

Chapter 7- She's gone

She woke up without him next to her. The sun burned her eyes, she held them tightly shut for a moment. She smelled bacon frying, she heard the crackling of the oil and she smiled. She walked dizzily into the kitchen, to see him standing at the stove.

"Good Morning, Sweet heart! I hope you slept well" He said cheerfully to her

She plopped lazily on the couch.

"I slept okay. I did not dream much."

"It could always be worse, right? I hope you're hungry, i made a breakfast fit for a queen!"

She smiled at him and turned on the TV and watched the morning talk shows.

He finished cooking, and set paper plates on the table. He turned his head to call her over when his eyes caught her most recent painting. Dead bodies laid across an empty landscape. He looked closer to see one male figure still holding on to life. His hand was reaching to a shadowy figure of a woman who was standing above him with her arms folded. He caught himself day dreaming and shook his head. He called out to her.

"Breakfast is ready!"

She rose from the couch and the sun illuminated her figure causing her to appear as a shadow. She sat at the table and began to eat. He stared at her, he thought she was beautiful.

"what are you looking at?"

"You, silly girl"

"Well stop it, its annoying!"

"Sometimes, I wish i could convey you in a verse, but i can never quite capture your essence"

"Ewwwwww! I am so sick of this crap! Day in and day out!

She was frustrated

"Hearing you claim you're a poet! Piles of notebooks filled with unrequited love, mushy sappy shit!"

She rose from the table, he followed shocked at her response to his attempt at romancing her. She walked heavily to a bookshelf filled with his notebooks and journals. She began pulling them out one by one and throwing them.

"What are you doing?" He sounded hurt more than any thing else.

"What am I doing? What am I doing? Are you serious? What are you doing? And I don't mean right now. I mean what are you doing with you Life? Don't you want more? Poetry does not pay the bills. You can write all the pretty words you want, you can write about flowers and butterflies and i will still be slapping roaches off my chest as we sleep! You are a pathetic waste of a man!"

He grabbed her by the shoulders and began shaking her.

"A waste of a man? Pathetic? You don't appreciate anything!"

He realized what his hands were doing, and he fell to his knees. He began to cry hysterically and he hugged her legs. She was shocked, he rarely raised his voice to her, let alone laid a hand on her.

She shook him off her legs. Shook her head at him and headed towards the door.

"I am gonna stay with my mother for a little while, i will see you later"

Chapter 8- Weak Hearts

Some hearts can not handle being alone. I should have known that before I left. In my heart i knew it would be okay. I planned to only go home for a little while, prepare a plan to make us work. I never understood what he saw in me, he was so beautiful. He could not have been real, no man could love me. I did not deserve him, so i needed to prove that to myself by treating him like he was worthless because i thought i was.

I was just going to find a good job and collect some money so we could live the life we deserved. I thought it was the right to do. I knew he was sensitive, I knew i was cold. I know i was bad a showing him how i felt. But i did not think he would do that.

Chapter 9- Where angels fear to tread

When she came back to the apartment, there was police tape on the door.

"Where is he?" she asked the police officer who was writing in a pad outside their apartment.

The police officer did not raise his head.

"He's dead, a shame. He was only 21. Took some nylons and hung himself in the shower."

She collapsed.

"I was coming back. Why couldn't he wait? I got a good job now. We could live decent, like everyone else!" She pushed her head on the concrete and cried.