They Call Me Mr. Socially Awkward

The quilt laid out underneath you

Is wrinkled and dirtied with august sweat,

Stitched with the frozen

Temperatures of September.

Feathered pillows stuffed with an unknown

Bird cushion your head some nights,

others you toss and turn as the feathers

stick you in the neck. Scratches, drawings  

of a faded red pearl necklace across your skin.

You yearn to feel the warmth of the quilt

as a small black fan propels cool air

on your face, eyes closed.

A thin-lined coma

Entraps your mind for hours,

broken by the off-put eagerness

of an alarm clock. You venture

forth to the next class, bag slung over one

shoulder. Sweat sticks to your brow,

skin clammy as you walk, avoiding

eye contact with passersby. Cotton sweatshirt

clings to your back, but you shiver

as the morning breeze finds a path

up that one hole in your right

sleeve. Your thumb wiggles in and out of

the hole, nervously.

Seated among empty desks,

a sense of ease in the lack of CO2.

You don’t have to pretend

to interest yourself in that girl’s life

who rattles on about her high heels.

You’ve got extra space on the desk

tops around you to spread out.

Fooling yourself, no single paper

of yours will touch another table

other than the one you sit at now.

Hot needles to your skin, cheeks

red when they whisper into your ear,

right—but so wrong, a reminder

of the hearing aid you own

that’s not placed in the canal.

You smile and nod

as if you heard about the silver

heels she just bought off eBay,

checking your wrist all the while.

A lack of religion but abundance

of prayers for those patches

that lie on your bed in a quiet room.

Orphan Boy in the Arcade

He inserts his last quarter into the Pac-Man Machine,

bouncing on his tip-toes, his sneakers slap his heels

like flip-flops. Duct tape poorly covers holes

in the middle of his sweatshirt, elbow skin flashing

with the movement of his skinny arms

as he moves the joystick, avoiding another Ghost.

Skin black with dirt where his knee shows under

ripped blue jeans.

I never asked his name.

We formed a routine each morning,

he would wait for me as I raised the gate

to the small arcade, lights on,

radio set low as we exchanged money.

He never failed to show with a twenty,

a return of eighty quarters in a large green

bowl, his hands much too small to handle

the change on his own. He would immediately

return to his Pac-Man game and insert

the first quarter, toes his only support

in reaching the joystick and white buttons.

I checked all the consoles in the shop

before dragging a chair over to the boy

who was happy to kneel on the cushion

and rest his feet.

At lunch I would pull out

a turkey and swiss sandwich, Doritos

and a few Oreos. I’d call over the orphan

boy to share my stash before we both

resumed to our posts.

No words exchanged,

silence was all we needed,

a mutual understanding of space

and hunger was the building blocks

to our companionship.

The beeps of the game fill the room,

the boy could lose now or in ten minutes,

either way I need to close shop when he finishes.

A woman of medium stature stumbles

into the arcade, paper sack concealing

bottle cradled to her chest. I open my mouth,

utter an objection of her entrance and the time

but she flicks a dirtied palm in my direction.

She yanks the boy off the blue chair,

his sneakers drag across the dark

galaxy carpeting as his eyes widen.

The orphan didn’t resist, he knew

not to get in the way of a mother

and the child she cradled in her arms.

Dear Robert, They keep telling me I’m Dead

But everything is too white for that.

Did they really think that the endless

white space would remind me of death?

Sweet love, I smell your cologne

in the root of my nostrils.

Come on Robert!

I want to see something beyond the white walls

And stained tile.

There you are sweetie,

wearing those clothes?

I didn’t buy you white scrubs.

Why so solemn?

Reach out; give me your hand,

and let’s go eat at Mac’s.

A burger could do you good, Bones.

Love, you are walking away,

you’re supposed to take me with you.

Where’s that music coming from?

Robert? That’s our song, isn’t it lovely?

Our wedding song…

Take this sinking boat

and point it home,
we've still got time.
Raise your hopeful voice

you have a choice

Robert,

they keep telling us we’re dead.

I can’t get our song out of my head.

Our waltz, your callused hands

On my hips, your every step

So calculated, gentle, despite your large feet.

I don’t know why they try to lie,

I see you every day in your white scrubs.

You visit me daily, very much alive

With the heat of your hand in mine.

They keep forcing pills down my throat Robert.

once they even mixed it with my food,

but I caught the miss-shaped chunk of potatoes

and the oblong piece of corn among the rest.

The orange tic-tacs give me stomach

cramps, migraines that blur my vision.

I saw my mother yesterday Robert,

I nearly fainted in fright.

It’s been five years

Since she passed away.

They keep telling me you’re dead, Robert.

You visit me less now, whispering:

 You have suffered enough
And warred with yourself
It's time that you won.

In my ear, your hot breath

on my neck a pool of electricity.

Falling slowly, eyes that know me
And I can't go back to where it all began.

There’s a man in white scrubs

Who bathes me now, his hands

callused and gentle.

I don't know you
But I want to,

I’ve no time.

An Unnamed Short Story

     The world span around me as I tried to put all the pieces together, “what did you say?” I asked the officer who stood solemnly in front of me.

    “Your parents are dead; they died in a crash just off of Highway 51. I’m sorry son,” The man rubbed his grayed beard I assumed out of nervous habit.

     I could no longer hold myself up as the news hit me, “what?” I choked as I sunk down to my knees. The man caught me before I sunk further and knelt down next to me. I sat there and sobbed uncontrollably as my world came crashing down. They couldn't be dead could they? My God they can’t be dead, not with the last words I shouted at them before they left! I don’t know how long I stayed like that, unresponsive and sobbing pitifully in the arms of a stranger but it felt like the man was becoming uncomfortable in the time.

    “Come on son, let’s get you somewhere to stay for the night,” the officer said, breaking my solemn trance and trying to help me up by my elbow. 

    I got up mechanically and followed him out the door and into the empty night air. The world felt incredibly hollow and scarce of the joy that once filled it. As the officer helped me into the back seat of his police cruiser I thought back to the last time I saw my parents, that last moment that I saw them alive. Resting my head against the cold glass, the engine starts up as I relive the moment.

    “You know exactly why we’re upset with you!” My mother shouts.

I look down at my nearly empty bowl of cereal and back up at her, “care to elaborate?” 

    “Damn it Jared! You know exactly what I'm talking about! Mark, help me out.”

    “Listen to your mother son,” my father says lamely.

    “You promised us that you’d wait till marriage!” My mother shouted once more.

    I shrugged my shoulders and get up from the table, walking away from my enraged mother and grabbing my bag for school.

    “Don’t you walk away from me young man! You get your butt back here, I’m not done with you!”

    I looked back at her, the door opened as I was already halfway out of the house, “Screw you! I don’t care what you think about me! You can both just go to Hell for all I care!” And with that I slammed the door behind me and didn't look back as I walked to school.

    I tried and shake the memory out of my head but that last image of my mother and father in the kitchen was engraved in my mind. The disappointment in my mother’s face was undeniable and I felt pained to find that my last memory of her. My father had acted very calm through the entire charade but the distaste in what I did was inevitably carved in the placement of his features. 

    You can both just go to Hell for all I care! That phrase replayed itself in my mind over in over following the hurt look that appeared on my mother’s face as a result. How could I live with myself knowing those were the last words they ever heard from me? You can both just go to Hell for all I care! How cruel could I be to shout that without knowing for sure that I could apologize for it later? 

    The officer looked back at me through the rearview mirror and says, “something eating at you son?”

    I broke down once more as the memory flashed through my mind again and again like a classic movie. Who could be so cruel to let me watch it over and over and not take pity? How could you be so cruel to leave your parents with such hateful words? I bet in their last breath they thought of that moment in the kitchen as you yelled at them, “you can both just go to Hell for all I care!” .   I bet that was the very last thought that went through their heads. I hope you’re proud of yourself Jared. I hope you’re proud.

    With my head in my hands I continued to spill out my emotions in the back of that police car as we sped away from my home, and my life. There seemed to be no light at the end of the tunnel I was stuck in, but I didn't really deserve such a mercy.

Starting Up

Hello and welcome!

Here I will post scenes from books, poems, and short stories that I am writing. I love feedback on all of my writing so if you have advice, comments, concerns, or whatever, please feel free to comment on my posts! Thanks and I hope you will grow to love this page!

C.K Fulfer