She without

She without
a short story by Jakob Szymanski

A reapplication of lipstick returns her vanity that drives her next move. She puts down her gin and tonic to give herself room to brows her most resent atmosphere. With an ease comparable to the consumption of her previous two drinks she turns her head to begin the inquiry of past and future affairs that ceremonially pursue her gin and tonics. Just like her drink she gives form to the refined sophistication of the citrus and juniper berries but with the equal attitude of the bitter tonic. This combination of the sweet and sour gives her men a desireless love in the form of pure sexuality and release of their natural animal expression. Her demeanor, attitude, and addiction are comparable to the mentality of her men but with an extended desire to receive and to give nothing. “Love in a different form” she tells herself.

The sheer redness of her hair resounds against the dim burlesque atmosphere giving its way to the attention of surrounding walking, breathing décor. Through this advantage to arouse curiosity she ignites her own self love giving little room for another. Suspended from her ears presents a set of earrings that give just enough length and shine as not to disturb the accent of her hair. Her advanced but dangerous taste in accessories provides her with the sense of intellect, class, and femininity with power. The draping of her sable satin dress forms the modest but enticingly erotic formation of her breasts and continues down to reach just above her knees. Pressed neatly against her dress, her pale but toned skin offers the balance between the cavernous color of the dress and brilliance of her hair. Her platform shoes give her an extended addition to her height but with just enough as to not intrude on her taste for the taller more profound men. She gives this small profile to replace what she feels she lacks. The simplicity of men in their eager attitude to give her what only she wants.

The dimness of the lights, the subtle color of the low set lounge chairs, and fusion of a diverse combination of cocktail dresses combined with the blandness of the suit allows for the week competition amid her originality. Her attendance of one similar environment amongst many of the same. An institution under the surface that provides the temporary elimination of an explanation. A replacement of reality but a substitution of justification. A sexy standard to which she has evolved. This is she.

An untailored tick tack of her shoes hitting the floor make for a reminder of an existence among the personalities. For moments a disappearing act is performed on the ill inspiring suits, the buoyant flow of cocktail dresses and all the characters inside them. None other than a drone is heard through the slow pulsation of music and the blend of the off beat conversation. Just enough sound to remind her of were she is but also who she is not. She allows herself to do this at times. To release herself from the custom to which she has been accustomed and verify what has already been verified. This is she but she without love.

Curiosity Killed the Cat
a short story by jakob michael

On the corner sits a brick building with just enough dimension to establish a presence amidst the darkness created by the surrounding high-rise buildings. With its abnormality and questionable reason for being the peculiar little structure gives a dose of curiosity to each passer-by that a pause for investigation is only natural and called for. As a second glace is casually initiated any agenda becomes minute and surplus. The innocence of the first glance drawn from the curiosity of simplicity in the building is now stripped and swiftly replaced with the inescapable intensity of a stare. Like a strange awkwardness that fills thought and feeling or a dense and almost black contemplation with little reason for it; this is the impression that fills the head with a force that then seeps its way into numbness of the fingers and a stiff chill of the skin. This dump of sensation hasn’t hindered liberty to continue with any original obligations, plans or aimless wandering; only they have chosen to look and stand subject to the curiosity. By now, however, this curiosity has developed in multiplication equal to the time spent standing in the intensity of the new found spectacle.

Time has given eyes an adjustment to darkness and body a position of necessity within the scene. Like that of a stitch sewn to make the cloth only the eyes create this spectacle just as the cloth is made by the stitch. Now, able to see with a deepness and perception, the details of the simplicity stand in minimalist fashion giving shapes, lines, and stature a reason for being. The flat broadness of the roof takes eyes down into the front faced where noticeably absent windows lay waiting to be found or imagined. The path leading from where the viewer stands to the edge of the building carries eyes for moments instead of an assumed second and when the end is reached the awaited assembly of the door is instead a dismay of disappointment as there is none. Only distinct lines created by the gaps between bricks can be questionably stated as character, all else is left there for the viewer to bath within their yawning pool of curiosity.

Time has given no gratification and with each consistent pulse of thought the eagerness for indulgence grows deeper. With the irrational approach of an addict and the naive innocence of a child the decision to nourish the desperate desire is met with a crave to draw nearer. Question of departure is pushed aside and thought of embracing curiosity isn’t even questioned. With a purpose the pathway begins where all began. Nothing has changed yet all stands in amplification. Each brick is seen with perception and just as they are stacked to create structure they also give the support of the imagination. Every detail seems like an invitation, as if it’s the will of the building and not the conscious decision of the mind to walk closer.

The bodies still stance takes a different shape as it begins to walk. The building begins to reach closer and a light is briefly noticed from a crack within the front wall but within the next step it lost. With a motion back it reappears and remains still but now with some kind of dimension and color. With a pause to understand this new addition to character, the color is brought forth as a profound and full bodied red, a red so original in depth and density giving the light a resemblance of scarlet silk textile or of a deep seepage of blood between cracks and with this announcement of color and resolution, the realization of shape is noticed with little question of its formation, a door.

With the knowledge of this door adding to curiosity a search for other shapes presents texture and contour. The brick has rough violent consistency and the outlined silhouette of length gives a heightened charisma to the buildings size and easy shape. None of this however takes away from the profound red that still continues its buoyant flow like a draped dress following the curvature of its woman. The life it exudes from beneath the door is erotic and filled with sensation.

With a pulsating heat of the face and a disobedient urge to finish for peak the hand reaches for the door knob and replaces the absence of grip with the feeling of cold antique steal against the palm. The coming of outside in has evolved from the ache for the inside out.

The brightness of the suspended chandelier and the opaque intensity of color and elaborate designs from the surrounding wallpaper create a new situation within a small foyer. Against the wall lays a claret satin embroidered bench that looks out onto the darkness through the open door. The red-wine setting gives radiance in contrast with the previous darkness. The deepness of dissimilarity has become the drive to replace curiosity with apathy. It has become a burden in the form of an addiction. It’s a force as deep as the red that surrounds. Much like the force that at this moment thrusts crimson blood through the body’s vein.

Leaving the foyer behind a quick turn around the corner announces only a hallway but with a subtly that could easily go un-discovered. With a slow pause an analysis begins of a discrete crackle between what seems to be the inconsistency of an old record. The impurity of the noise amid the untainted silence gives an easy escape from thought. Focus is blurred as the noise becomes closer. A symphony like sound but with frequent scratches in the flow keeps attention and motion in the direction of the room on the left.

A manual crank phonograph with an apparent responsibility to play for this occasion gives question to the whereabouts of its man power. But casually atop an ornately designed side table it plays with a purpose so obvious and natural to the situation that its explanation isn’t sought but instead accepted. It bring a purpose and rational to a previous situation that gave no intent. It submerses the situation to a depth so deep that the curiosity once pursued has become a danger to mind and conscious. Everything has become a risk. The clutter of sporadically placed paintings on the wall give opportunity to an enhanced memorization. Low set light combined with the small proportion of the room give an ample feeling of oneness with the building that previously brought such distress. But above all the flow from the redness of the walls feed the sensation of curiosity to a size so commanding and influential.

Just beyond the phonograph a modest cedar bar top gives the support to a neatly organized display of crystal and a selection of liquors. The invitation from the adjacent stool calls for an excuse to give memorization a momentary pause but also a chance to commence a deeper analysis of the surroundings. The dimness of the light mixed with the pungent color of the room gives a density to the brandy as it’s poured into the crystal glass. The smooth slosh created by the pour becomes the hearable sense encouraging the connection between the glass and lips. The delicate smell of spices brought forth by the spill brings fantasy to its taste.

With a glance across the room an understood sentiment of selfness is stripped with the new awareness of another body. Casually beside the edge of the wall lays a cat. Beside the cat lays the reason for the cat’s presence, a bowl with a vacant absence of substance. The warmth of the milk lies inside the immobile body of the curious cat.

Four Men

"The tall one appears to be the oldest with signs of ware around his eyes, a yellowing tint to his sparsely populated teeth and deep cratered dimples as he smiles, a happy man that is most likely the leader."

Four Men
a short story by
Jakob Michael (my new writer name)

Eyes are peeled in a skeptical curiosity as four men enter the subway car. It’s late on a weeknight with the car nearly empty. Just moments ago you could here the subtle snore of an elderly Chinese man in the corner and the taping of a teenagers fingers as he listens to his generously pulsated house music herd from his head phones. Now with the interruption of these subtleties the cars main focus is these four men. There casual entrance gives spectators an odd feeling of translucence. A snore or any unsolicited sound from a leaking set of head phones is disregarded. The tall one appears to be the oldest with signs of ware around his eyes, a yellowing tint to his sparsely populated teeth and deep cratered dimples as he smiles, a happy man that is most likely the leader. After several minutes of casual conversation and perfectly timed jokes the older one speaks in a more serious but sympathetic voice, “Who has bread to go with the soup tonight? I have the soup but who has the substance.” He waits for a reply but the silence is only followed by the low hum of the subway tracks just beneath. Disappointment hits the air hard. After a quick pause, two seats down another voice speaks. Eyes now take on this other interest. His words are slurred and his head sways in a most original almost detached way. Not a beautiful man. Although noticeably middle-aged, his face is ridden with acne and patches of unshaven hair. He cracks a sarcastic joke, probably about the night’s lack of bread. But with his unclear speech his Spanish is awfully hard for me to understand. Almost certainly however, the response of laughter from his party is herd three subway cars behind. Now set in place of the earlier disappointment is the previously established feeling of friendship. They just needed that reminder. They are a family or maybe a band of brothers. No real definition could be given but this is what it is, some kind of undefined relationship that could never be replaced or broken. Not in this group does there exist a father and son, uncle and nephew, brother or cousin. In this group they have one major thing in common. Each of there original lives are in the past. The future is vague but most obvious is the ever burdening fact that they are all homeless. They are as the world sees them, bums.

It’s mid January with much of the cities natural life having died with the warmth of the sun. Just three weeks ago did Madrid see the rare and almost surreal appearance of three inches of snow. This uninvited presence is now, for most, entirely forgotten but for this group of men the memory only makes fear ride even closer to there brink of hope.

Having moved on from the disappointment of the soup being the night’s only source nutrition the leader speaks again. He mentions the dreaded question that is given its life each night and with each progressive night the answer is often times left unanswered. At times it’s almost figurative because of its silent response. However, even when unanswered the answer lies on each individual face. It’s a synonym to the horror of the question and an equal to an actual response. With a deep stare through the window that only looks through to the darkness of the tunnel he asks it. “We have a few options boys. La Latina can offer us some privacy and maybe even the company of a fire. Pirimedes has the river with an array of bridges to make our choice from.” He gives a polite pause before he announces what everyone knows he will say but not what they want to hear. A moment later he says it. “Where shall we get our beauty sleep?” His attempt at humor is slaughtered with the tone of his voice. His voice cracks midway between the word beauty because of his lack of air. This air needed so badly to salvage the groups positivity sits in the vacant hole in his stomach. He has not eaten in three days.

Just then a familiar voice comes in to play. Some middle aged woman that each Madrileño has come to know. Her recorded voice with a touch of sensuality is herd over the intercom, “next stop, La Latina”. It’s a nice break from the tense air given of by the four men’s deep thought. Again I catch a momentary snore from the neighboring Chinese man. He is still sleeping. Not lasting long, silence is again interrupted but this time in a nonverbal approach. The words just uttered “next stop, La Latina” bring a new expression to each of the four men’s faces. They give each other a quick glance and stand in the same synchronized moment. They leave, silently with little expression on there faces.

Tap-tap-tap, the teenager is hypnotized by the rhythmic beat of his music. The Chinese man has changed his sleeping position but is still in a state of hibernation. Then with the newly vacant seats in front of me I see myself in the window. I try and reminisce the resent account of the four men. “Next stop, Urgel”. I leave the Chinese man in the corner and the teenager to his music. I leave being the sol witness of four men.

Note:
That’s my first short story! Criticism is appreciated, thanks
-jAKE

The Eurail Dairies: That Bottle in That Bar

"The originality of a working woman’s movements as she walks her London streets..."

The Eurail Dairies
That Bottle in That Bar

England is like a clean and quick shot from that bottle in that bar that stands just under the rest where there’s question of its contents. Now that your order is in you begin to query ones trip to this particular bar. The ceiling is plastered with smoke and low set with pictures of Jenna Jameson in the 80’s. The men on the other side of the bar top look like an image directly out of Quintan Tarantinos head and your hand is resting on something moist and still warm. As you take that preliminary shot and you feel the harsh burn of that bottles contents you begin to embrace your surroundings just as you embraced your skepticism of that last shot. By the end of the night, not only have you fully embraced the rest of the bottle but you seem to have given your surroundings a second chance as now they look so much more attractive. England has this same sharp candid bight but with a smooth surface layer candor that only is presented after time, a second chance…and maybe a drink.

The originality of a working woman’s movements as she walks her London streets, the odd peripheral vision sightings of all the uniquely experimental and bizarrely unconventional people surrounding Camden City, Trafalgar Square at night, or simply me as the American still not willing to admit that the rest of the world uses the metric system and there are particular countries that find a sense of sanity in driving on the wrong side of the road. This is the beauty of England’s capital city.

The day is people watching, sightseeing and self amusing, the night is a Soho bar and then the Broadway, and everything in between is just the cruel realization that the pound towers above my delicate dollar. Starbucks has even discontinued its purpose of giving me that American corporate comfort and instead it’s been replaced by the reminder that my corporate America sits on the brink of the domino effect. So, now when I sip my coffee with that modest green mermaid staring back at me I star back with pity and sadness because I know its dying just beneath those golden arches lying next to Ronald MacDonald.

This next addition to my collection of journals is brought to you in a very English fashion. As I speak to you from a corner street English pub I am surrounded by a series of distressed leather oversized armchairs, the BBC is presenting the years best snapshots, I’m sipping a pint of lager, and I’m over hearing conversations of last weeks fox hunting expedition. All quite English and very much out of my comfort zone but still intriguing causing me to stay and tell you some of what’s happened since my last chapter in The Eurail Dairies.

It’s been six months since I’ve left my eight foot by ten foot room just left of the basement bathroom in my parent’s house. I have reached the two decade mark forcing me to really pretend like I’m an adult. I have traveled through England, France, Germany, Switzerland, and Italy and I have a big boy job teaching English in the capital of Spain, Madrid.

I began my time in Spain on September 22nd. I came in by Eurail after one blameless bus detour in Rome caused a string of events that ultimately caused me to miss my flight. After reaching Madrid I immediately began a one month high intensity course that certified me to teach English as a foreign language. During the first three weeks as I searched for the perfect apartment I spent some quality time in a five foot by five foot hostel room with the most flattering green curtains and white lighting. I swear to you the bed was bought from the local nursing home. It had a side crank that would give you your desired level of elevation. It totally worked wonders because for me to see the late presidential election on the TV behind the door I would have to put it on its highest possible level. Although highly amusing it was quite unnecessary and made me feel like I was predestined to possess arthritis or some disease causing total immobility.

My big boy title to accompany my big boy job is, brace your self, “Jacob Michael, Professor of English”. Jacob, it sets a good tone for, Hi, I’m Jacob and I like to work”. The name leaves little room for Club Pacha on Friday, lunch and then the bar marathon in La Latina on Saturday. So, Jake seems to come out just as frequently as Jacob. The difference is that when Jake is introduced, Jacob is ready for the weekend.

Anyway when Jacob has his obligation to work for his living he teaches a range of students from a class with two four year old girls to a 45 year old Lawyer to Corporate business classes. I enjoy my job for now. I have the opportunity to meet and understand the Spanish. It’s an opportunity that eight months ago I am so glad I had made

Said to be the Paris of southern Europe Madrid gives more to her residence that anyone would think to receive. It’s hard to get any understanding of all the advantages until you become a work-in, live-out style resident. My schedule by day is booked with classes but the Spanish night brings out the most timid of people and hurls them into the 12 hour city wide social assembly lasting till eight the next morning. Sitting a little behind the times Madrid gives that perfect balance of old European culture with the hype of the in fashion and class. The people themselves have migrated with the times and kept a sense of in the mode existence but tradition has continued as the people continue to practice and value it.

Until July when I return to the States I will continue to recreate my European adventures and stick them in Cyberspace. Also I will be very mentally busy trying to figure out what life will bring me after my glorious stay in Madrid. As of now the most attractive option is either business or journalism school in the city that never sleeps. But my ideas change just as fast as my appetite for a change of scenery.


A big boy but not yet an adult,
Jacob Michael, Professor of English (it’s a weekday)