Michele Archives

October 21, 2005

Michele: Love's Labor Lost

“Did you fix the charcoal?”

She peeked into the studio, smiling. I smiled back.

“I did. Come have a look.”

The finished sketch sat against the far wall.

“Oh, my.”

“Is that good or bad?” Her approval meant the world to me.

“It’s beautiful.” She kissed my cheek. “My fiancé will love it. He’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

She left and I stared out the window after her. I’d never see her again.

I held the canvas and rubbed gently on the area around her eyes.

I sent her a text message.

One more thing to fix. Come back tonight.

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October 22, 2005

Volume 7, Issue 22

Today you are a cereologist :

One who specializes in investigating crop circles.

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November 22, 2005

Michele: All Rise

She was wearing a push-up bra and a flowery dress with a plunging neckline. Her hair was swept up in a bun, straggles of hair brushing her face. Her tan legs were bare and ended in red stilettos. It was hard to tell if she just had a romp or if she was ready for one.

She adjusted her boobs before she walked into the courtroom with her attorney, confident that her cleavage and her legs would help her cause.

“All rise. Now presiding, the Honorable Katherine Meyers.”

Chagrined, she leaned into her lawyer. “What are the chances she’s a lesbian?”

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December 1, 2005

Michele: Stumble Inn

Rise and shine! We’ve made coffee!

They want it there. I put four mugs on a tray. Milk, sugar.

Down the step. Easy...easy...step down. The tray wobbles; four mugs slide, drip java onto my arms.

Hold tray with both hands. Walk easy, down one more step...oops.

Damn. Damn. DAMN. Dumb shoes.

I fall. Mugs drop; café latte and dark roast spit and drip all over my face, arms, legs.

Holy shit that burns!

I call for help. They don’t hear.

I reach for my cell. The skin on my hand - it’s like a peel.


I faint.

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December 6, 2005

Holiday Hiatus


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January 3, 2006

Michele: Clean

My hair is cut.

My clothes are fresh.

My shoes do not have holes.

My breath does not smell of gin and desperation.

My eyes are clear and bright and see straight.

I walk toward my apartment on feet that don’t trip over themselves, in a line that is straight.

I do not puke up a $500 bar tab in the elevator.

I am clean.



I open the door.

There is a note.

She is gone.

I shake. Stop.

I want a drink.


I am clean, despite her.

It is good she is gone.

I have returned.

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January 5, 2006

Michele: All of Us Food That Hasn't Died

Daylight comes and he sees what he stepped on all night.


Light trickles into the hole, reflects off the whiteness. He squeezes his eyes shut.

How long?
How many?
Who are they?

The hole is deep, wide. He remembers being pushed down, tumbling over what he thought was smooth rocks.

Human. Bones.

Something flaps overhead. A helicopter. He climbs over bones, scrambling to safety, stops when he sees a glint of light. A dog tag. He reads it. A neighbor he saw alive. Last night.

The flapping gets closer.

That’s not a helicopter.

These bones - they’ve been picked clean.

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January 12, 2006

Michele: The F Stop

Here eyes darted left and right as she spotted creeks and clouds and crocuses, all of which demanded her attention.

“Pull over here!” “No, here!”

Pete pulled over every time and waited patiently while listening to clicks and whirrs and sounds of triumph.

At Exit 82, she spotted a pile of rocks.


Pete kept going. He’d pulled over for everything from birds to dew. He was done.

Jessica leaned over Pete, opened the door and pushed him out of the car.

The last thing Pete saw was the I BRAKE FOR PHOTO OPS bumper sticker racing away from him.

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January 24, 2006

Michele: Hanging on To Let Go

I live.


My breathing is aided, my food shoved into veins.

It hurts just to exist.

I breathe because they come. Her smile, his laughter, their patience when I try to converse. I see the hope in their eyes, but it is clouded by reality. I hang on for them. My body wants to give up. This is not life. How many more days of this must I live to keep them from grief?

I wait for Sunday, when they’re all here. The smiles, the voices, the warm hands on my face.

“I love you all.”

I let go.

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September 25, 2006

Michele: Born Under a Bad Sign

Emotia is the 13th sign of the Zodiac.

Those born under this sign are brooding, melancholy and emotional. Their self inflicted sadness so overwhelms their life that they fail to see they are bringing it on themselves and tend to blame the world at large for their depressing life view. They expect bad luck to follow them and they often experience heartbreak over relationships that existed only in their minds. They find solace in bad poetry and sad music and can often be found huddled in the corner of a coffee shop listening to the Smiths.

Famous Emotias: Robert Smith

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