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A graduate of the University of Montana's Creative Writing Program, Shelly Wass now studies at Reed College where she hopes to receive her master's degree in Liberal Studies and then stay in academia as long as possible without starving to death.
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MY RESIDENCE INFO:
City: Lake Oswego
State/Country: Oregon
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BOOKS PUBLISHED:
Story by Shelly Kay Wass
Poetry by Michael Lynn Wass (1946-1995)
Driven by unrealistic dreams
and
expectations,
I often fail
miserably, short
of accomplishment
The sun tried its best to creep in through the blinds, tightly shut to fend off the cruel winter. His first conscious and laborious breath that morning was not one of life. It did not invigorate.
“Another day,” he thought. He had nothing to do-nowhere to go. Life held no more mysteries for him to explore today. The money he had from selling his beloved cabin was almost gone, but he could stretch it out at least another week or two.
“Mike,” a voice called from outside his bedroom door, “I’m going to go visit my mom, I’ll be back late tomorrow night.” Jared was a good man. Mike hardly knew him, had answered an ad for a roommate, but already he could see that Jared still had that fervor, that life.
As soon as he heard the front door close, Mike rose from his indented pillows. His room smelled of something all too familiar, it was the smell of despair. Littered around his bed, within arms reach, were the empty bottles that were slowly collecting, multiplying, beckoning. This one closest still had a few drops. And so his day began, with the bitter and bold taste of his truest friend, nemesis, Jim Beam.
devastate
a bomb detonated
Even the act of hobbling out of bed was a chore. It took all of his sparse strength to swing his uncertain feet onto the cool floor and into his worn moccasins. He contemplated a shower, thought better of it-too much precious energy exerted. Instead, he stumbled to the dresser--second drawer down was the last of his stash. Just one precious guzzle and he felt his trepidation wash away.
Mike’s now somewhat steady hands went to his flecked gray hair, smoothed it back, and then reached for the only attire he trusted anymore-blue sweatpants. As he pulled them over his weak and bruised legs he thought of the time he wore pinstripes and ties. Those days were a blur of trials, clients, money. “Life,” he thought. He was respected then. He was at war with himself then, too, but he was alive.
The memories were too much to bear anymore. They haunted him, they pushed their way to the front of his crippled brain and only the numbing liquid forced them back into the recesses. Yes, today he did have a purpose, he was running short on his solace. Mike grabbed some of the cash on the dresser and went to the kitchen for a small snack to keep his body mobile.
destroying all hope
destroy the faith of those closest
Out of breath, he flopped down on the couch, just short of the kitchen. His eyes strayed to the book laying half read on the table. His eyes strained to read, now, even with his glasses. His thoughts swirled in his brain and came to rest on a distant memory. A memory of his estranged daughter. She sat with him then, talked about books, smiled, and offered encouraging words-gave him hope, and life. Seemed like yesterday that she packed her bags and left him with his books and empty promises of reform. Mike closed his eyes, shook his head, and a new ache appeared in his brain-the ache of withdrawal. Mike forced down a piece of toast, plain, and grabbed his keys. The clock by the door read 8:30 am.
there is set in my own ruin
murdering the remnants of goals
turning the dreams into nightmares
Mike brushed the snow off his blue blazer, got in, and shivered. It was a shiver not from cold, but from the idea of facing the even colder man at the counter of the liquor store. He didn’t understand, that man, he judged. Mike wanted to tell him that it wasn’t an addiction, he wanted to tell him that he was in control; he wanted the only person he came in contact with anymore to know that he was once a great lawyer. For a moment, Mike considered going to a new store, yes, that would show that cruel man behind the counter. But, the trip would take twice as long as normal. He decided to face the man.
“Good morning, Mike,” the man said surly. “Cold enough for you?”
Mike gave an inaudible mumble and grabbed his usual two bottles, biggest ones they offered, and set them defiantly on the counter. The man rang up his total, took his money and bagged his goodies. Mike could see it in his eyes--the man was wondering how he could give up everything without a fight. He was wondering if there was any hope left for this wore out and desperate man.
“It’s not what you think.” Mike accidentally shot out loud. The man cocked his head and looked confused for a moment. Mike grabbed the bag and stormed out the door. He was furious, who was he to try and know what I have been through? Inside the man bent his head in the reflective knowledge of just another life gone bad.
Screaming silently
within the cave of bone
crowded with disintegrating flesh
living a torturous existence
I...
Once home, the confrontation with the man seemed dreamlike and far off. The only concern now was whether or not to get a cup. Today, no, he barely stepped inside the door before the bottle was open and the warm fluid seeped into his stomach and every organ, every limb, every corner of his brain. The day was his. He sat down in front of the television, turned it on, turned it off. There was a CD in the player that he liked. His daughter bought it for him one Christmas. She had been so excited about the present that she made him open it two days early. The violins and flutes seemed to gather him up and float him above it all. He was flying through the air, limp and remorseful.
I languish
waiting...waiting
for a time of escape
Without warning, a sudden gag and shudder erupted through his entire body. He sat up with a start. But the storm then passed as quickly as it had appeared and he was at rest again. Mike sat for hours, listening, remembering, regretting. Where did he go so wrong? Why was everyone against him? What could he have done differently? Nothing, he decides. “I fought and fought, and they were too strong,” he reassured himself. He waited for some understanding to come, but he waited in vain. There was nothing more to be understood, there was no capacity for a change of thought or activity. He was done. He was truly alone.
Cries go unheard
as the years add to the effluent
building and threatening
suffocation
starvation
and in fear
I tear at impenetrable walls
A drunken sleepiness came over him and he was relieved. He let his eyes close gently and he was suddenly serene. He dreamed of a time when he was truly happy. He was fly-fishing in the stream behind his cabin. His dog ran and barked on the bank, afraid of the cold, rushing water. Mike looked up at the trees stretching towards the blue sky, and then at the individual stones tumbling with the current. He smiled, he was alive. No one was around but nature--and she was everywhere. He could feel her with every breathe he took. Truly happy. No thoughts of his ruining, no thoughts of his destroyed family, no thoughts of what he left behind in order to pursue his one goal--numbness. He was alone, except for his devoted dog, and the water. He stayed there, unmoving, until the sun went to rest behind the large peaks in the distance. In the darkness, he awoke.
to no avail,
for no one hears or sees
the tragedy
Now awake, Mike remembered his happiness, distantly. His anger at the world faded momentarily to be replaced by guilt, immense and unbearable. A desperate sob which seemed to come from outside him filled the room. The tears rushed down his face. He could not let this happen. He could not give up, one more drink. Mike fumbled with the cap, rose his shaking and tear stained hands, and drank. He drank and drank and the sobs would not cease. His mind whirled; his memories tortured him, more liquid. It had beaten him, he decided, it no longer repressed the damning thoughts. He emptied the bottle, moved to the next.
“No more of this!” He shouted aloud. “Even I can take only so much!” His cries seemed to bounce off the blank walls only to come back and slap him in face.
Where was he not five minutes ago? The stream, the water. He wanted so desperately to return and let his sorrow wash out of his body and away with the current.
“Yes, the cabin,” he thought, somewhat relieved. Mike laid his head on the hard couch cushion. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the pure, untouched, unharmed, stream. His breath became erratic, his mind swam and he started to fade. Another erupting gag and shudder, another laborious breath, again no life taken in.
One more breath...then no life left at all.
of a wasted mind
puking on itself.
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Silent Anna
by Shelly Wass
My name is Carin, but he called each one of us Anna. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed us briefly to pose for a photo to be included in his family archives. We accepted this as an ever-present reminder of our class and position. But when the photographer smiled with his cigar hanging off one lip and said, "Smile pretty now, Anna," not one of us could muster a grin
of acceptance for a man who wore his clothes as soggily as his cigar. That would be except for Anna Next to Me. But her smile
was just an extension of her simple mind.
When I first became Anna, I longed for the distinctiveness of my youth. Seven years ago I would have had a notion to lift my ruffled apron at the sweaty photographer just to prove that I was not just another house girl with white gloves and a
penchant for high collars and starch. But years of living by day as an anonymous girl in a white uniform, carrying a load of
someone else?s soiled sheets down the servant?s stairs, could convince anyone that their parents had actually stared lovingly at
them at birth and said, ?What a darling little girl, I think we should call her Anna.?
There we were, chronicled for all time and rooted as firmly in our status as servant as the tree behind us was rooted in
the ground. Nine little Annas neatly ironed and lined up before a house we detested, which belonged to a man we all feared. But
no one so much as my dearest friend and lone confidant in a house of unclean rumors and forced female rivalry, Silent Anna. She was known to me affectionately and alone, during our late night whispers, as Bridgett.
She was always the last to come to bed. I would lay in bed with my muscles tense and my eyes so wide they would hurt so as not to fall asleep. When I sensed her soft fingers on the door I would sit up straight and pull my nightgown over my knees, drawn against my chest. I would watch her struggle to pull her stiff white uniform over her head, some nights required more effort than others. Some nights Bridgett would crawl into my bed and lean her head against my bare arm. Those nights were empty of stories and questions, and I could sometimes feel her cheek dampening and her hair sticking wet to my skin. I wouldn?t move, just hold myself tight and strong and tingling against her slightest movement. I would wake with my blanket tucked up under my chin, the way my mother used to do it, and Bridgett asleep in her own bed.
"Carin, do you think that the ways things are is the way they are supposed to be? What in my nature determines the position I should occupy?" I knew she was looking me in the eye that night even though she could only see my shadow in our
darkness.
"What does my body have to do with my position? I am not even in possession of myself.? At this her head and voice lowered. I looked away, not wanting to be the one admiring her silhouette at that moment. I knew that she was forced to live almost entirely inside her head, and I wanted that to be the only part of her that I loved. She responded to my silence by resting
her hand on my arm and I felt her entirely, her body and mind belonging to herself alone for that one moment. I cherished her
complete.
"I see what is expected of me, Carin. And I know what my life appears to be worth. What do I do then with all these
ideas in my head about what I could do if I were someone else. Somewhere else. I feel so alive inside, but I have no way to
bring that out and into my life. What happens to life that isn't allowed to be expressed?" Bridgett shook her head slowly so I
could alternately see the outline of her nose and cheek. Her head dropped almost even with her shoulders. I could feel her inner
struggle inside my own chest. She wasn't actually asking me a question, but her hands, raised and palms up, suggested that she
expected there was an answer.
I imagined during the day that the house belonged to my Bridgett. I smoothed the quilt on the back of the couch so that
she could use it to cover her legs while she reclined at night by the fire. I placed fresh flowers on the breakfast table so she could
start her day with the smell of spring and coffee. I dusted her favorite books on the highest shelf.
When she entered the room I stood straight as if she were the one inspecting my work. She never looked at my face
during the day. Someone was always watching hers. I followed his eyes to her face, down to her shiny white shoes. ?Anna,? I
could hear him breathe, rubbing the inside of his own thigh with the end of his pipe. I knew he wasn?t referring to me. She
would not return either of our gazes. I wanted to spit in his face for his presence, if it weren?t for him she may have locked eyes
with me for even a moment. When she left the room, we both felt the space emptier and sad. I would storm inside as I walked
away, afraid and jealous for her to be alone with him that night before she came to me.
?I must return it first thing in the morning, before anyone notices,? she whispered as she unfolded a small black book
from her apron. Her hands seemed to caress rather than hold it. Spiraled in gold on the front of the book was the name Isak
Dinesen.
?Carin, she writes under the name Isak, which means ?laughter? in Hebrew. She took a man?s name, and she lives and
writes as laughter.? I wondered what Anna may mean in Hebrew. We didn?t choose it ourselves, but we lived our name, just as
Isak lived hers.
She told me a story that night about an ancient city and a convent which displayed the blood stained linens of
princesses borrowed from their wedding nights. We walked the dank hallways together, Bridgett and I, and Isak guided us, as
she did all others, to a stop in front of the framed linen which was stark white against the stone of the hall. It was the ?blank
page? in a hallway of stories. Bridgett closed the book and we silently lived as many tales as we could imagine about that white
linen. The feeling was familiar to me, I saw that same blankness in Bridgett?s face when I passed her during the day. We did not
speak again that night, and we fell asleep filling that page with our own inventions.
I think I must have left Bridgett alone in the hallway that night, starring life into the blankness. She was gone in the
morning, probably slipping the book back into place on the shelves above her head. She never returned, not to me at least. I sat
up in bed that night and watched her undress, but her eyes never lifted to mine. She slipped into bed and I stared at her back as
her breathe became regular and slow. I resisted the urge to crawl into her bed and cry on her arm as she had done on mine.
I tried for a while to bring her back. I borrowed the book myself one night and slipped it under her pillow before she
came to bed. I watched eagerly in the dark as she set her head on her obstructed pillow. Nothing. Not even laughter could bring
her back out.
?Bridgett, tell me a story from the book,? I urged.
?Go to sleep now, Anna.?
I was startled as if she had called me by an obscenity. Wide eyed, I lowered myself back down to my own pillow. I
knew that night that my name had no special meaning like Isak. Anna must actually mean nothing, I decided. ?Nothing? is what
Anna was translated into in any language I could imagine. It wasn?t even a blank page, it held no stories or mysteries. Bridgett
and I had both come to occupy our name as our name occupied us. That was how we left each other, just as we had found each other, as Anna
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