…writes Marcus.
Marcus Jonathan Chapman
And I go to sleep with white noise
it drowns out the leaking shower
and I remember when
you said we should fix it
when it was just a trickle
and now it’s a stream
and I go to sleep with white noise
because it drowns out the falling water
© 2021 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved
A short piece.
by Marcus Jonathan Chapman
I’ve found that little piece of Play Doh
went missing around the age of 4 or 5
I found that little piece of Play Doh
stuck somewhere between my
kidneys, ribs, lungs and heart.
I can’t quite make it out
but I can feel it giving way
to the pressure of my fingers
I can feel that joyful squish
running up my hands, arms
and dancing in my brain
just how I remember it
I found a little piece of Play Doh
given up for lost
I’m not sure how much is left
but I’m running it through my fingers
making fart noises, bubbles and
molding it to the shape of organs
I’m holding tight to a little piece of Play Doh
and my eyes light up
and I can’t see it
but I think it was blue
and I realize, it’s just as soft
as I am
© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved
A short poem.
by Marcus Jonathan Chapman
Tomorrow I leave on a road trip
With my dad
We’ve been to
North Carolina
New York
Just the two of us
In NC
We saw all the green
From a Mustang convertible
Watched Eddie Murphy on screen
Took a dip in a mountain stream
Dad worked in the next room
I saw porn for the first time
I was still a single digit
In NY
We saw mountains of glass and steel
From taxi cabs and walks
Viewed works of art
Ate well
Dad went to a conference
I crossed the Brooklyn bridge
and smoked
I was in my early 20’s
I’m 35
We know each other’s vices
We’re driving to the deserts of the Midwest
We’ll see strip malls
gas stations
fast food
On our way to beauty
I’ll grab my watch
And
Hold its hands
© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.
A short piece written in 2009.
by Marcus Jonathan Chapman
Images of incubators, IV drips, tubes and a wrist band. Memories conjured up by repetitive whispering echoes. Stories on repeat for the benefit of the teller. Any deviation from the script might yield a moment of truth. The voices chant visions of a baby with chicken pox, red bumps, itching and bloody. Collective sighs of relief ease out of the peanut gallery. The boy is catching the right diseases at the right time. Praise god, thank you father and continue to bless us. A telling symptom for the diseases of the soul, an unquestioning heart and a reluctance to embrace the shit. While the doctors poke and prod, the peanut gallery; the gloria-inexchelsis-deo-gawkers destroy their knee caps and hold sweaty palms together. Oh what a friend we have in jesus. Indeed, while the doctor stabilizes gods little pin cushion, grabs a cup of coffee and announces to the gawkers as they rise from their diligence, “the babe will be fine.” The doctor takes a bow. The peanut gallery once again takes a knee and as they look up to god, the angels hook the doctor by the neck and pull him off stage. The illusion practically flawless; as solid as a slice of Swiss cheese.
A short piece written in 2008.
by Marcus Jonathan Chapman
This is the age of dissonance and divide, of fuck-you’s at school and prayers at home. The age of staring at girls. The age of exploring with fingers and untimely boners. The age of fantasizing about teachers and noticing mothers. This is the age of anger, of threatening teachers aids with a baseball bat. Of starting a reputation of unsportsmanlike conduct and hot-blooded tantrums.
…
Was it emotional, physical, spiritual or sexual trauma? A combination of all or any of the aforementioned? I don’t know. I hardly have any child hood memories. I feel stunted, less mature to deal with different stages of life and only until I’ve moved on to a new era or age do I feel all at once adept and inadequate all over again. Walking around pretending. An actor who highlighted the wrong parts of the script. Always wondering what it is that I am lacking and what it is so obvious to everyone but me. A theory, a specific method, a grammatical rule, a particular pronunciation, an author, a book, a piece of music or art, a historic event, an historic figure, the latest news, a cooking method, a social cue. So anxious and apprehensive about impeding my progress by misquoting, declaring a stupidity. I speak to strangers in a series or pattern of jests and facts; the language of the unconfident, the vernacular of the low-self esteemed. Sticking to things that are only true or saying things that are so over the top no one could dispute their falsehood, which is another type of truth. Steering clear of conviction or opinion or belief or individual truth. That isn’t easy. That is an un-lubricated trajectory.
…
What is my identity? What is my heritage? My background? My culture? I was born in the hospital of a city that was built around it. A mecca for Seventh-day Adventists wealthy enough to afford private schools but connected enough to get a discount. Long lines of last names trail the university’s history. New faces same names. A thriving enterprise in the middle of a decaying county/city. The navel-gazing institution growing to the tune of its own demand.
It’s a part of the story but not yet.
My mother was born in Spain. Emigrated to California at eighteen because she met my father. My father the son of an American soldier/missionary and a converted ex-catholic. He lived in Spain, Kenya, the pacific peninsula, and Oakland, California. From what he tells me, Oakland was tougher on him than the African wild ever was. Being the only white boy in a predominantly black school is the wrong reason to stand out. I was born the son of a teacher and a part-time hustler. My father taught Spanish, physical education and history at a small Adventist school in Redlands, California. My sister, four years younger was born the daughter of an attorney and a part-time hustler. In the time between my arrival on earth and my sisters, my father had quit teaching, moved us all to Canoga Park, Los Angeles and finished a law degree in two years.
I’m not sure how confident people are in their memories but I am not. I don’t know whether my active imagination recreated images to go along with the stories I was told so many times or if they are actual memories. In either case, none are very vivid. Foggy glimpses more than anything else. I’m also not sure if it’s my focus on the present or moving forward that makes me apprehensive about remembering things. What I do remember are emotions and lessons as they relate to this idea I have of the big picture. How things fit into the grand scheme. Exactly what or whose scheme it is, I don’t know. But I feel that I am constantly trying to zoom out, to view things from a more global perspective. When in fact I envy those who wear their hearts on their sleeves and keep the truth on the tips of their tongues.
A healthy amount of anxiety should also accompany the sudden thought of a memory. I become anxious because I have doubts that things actually happened as I remember them. And of course their are those vivid moments of drunken times that are ironically remembered. The moments of clarity that are the most clear in all the fog of the mind. Which I believe have to do with the reason why I drank. To come to terms with the way things are, to deal with life, to know that I live with a certain amount of privilege unearned brings a sharp dissonance. I do not call it guilt bit it’s a feeling of being the teacher’s pet, of being chosen first, of winning the lottery. It makes me think that god has less than pure motives for me if I am the teachers pet. But god and all the infinitesimal constructs that keep his wobbly frame standing have one fault. A fault that I will never be able to get over, even on my most optimistic days. Knowing that belief is a leap between two cliffs of knowledge or more often a leap off a cliff. The very fact that the idea of god was planted early and everything that comes with it, both good and bad are man made. Everything is man made. Our narratives put humanity at the center of the plot. Adam and Eve were to take care of the animals and the earth. But who would take care of Adam and Eve? Save for our meddling, the animals seem to be getting along fine. I will never be able to move past the thought that men continue to be confident about god. I myself can be confident about love, anger, sadness, hatred, integrity, etcetera. But what does that have to do with god? If I create my own god who is serving whom? Because I wish not to drink alcohol anymore, there are some who say that a belief in a power greater than myself is the only thing that will save me. Again if I create my god, what is saving me? And another rickety construct is born and it climbs in a jagged fashion along with the rest of the thin, beams to support an idea. An idea we call god (or whatever name) with infinitesimal foundations.
I continue to struggle with these existential thoughts but then ironically Jesus comes to mind. He was mostly about people. There are people around me all the time and when this thought crosses my mind I get disgusted with myself for staring up at the sky and ignoring what’s around me. People in my family, the people I was born to and those who are in close proximity, the people who have similarities and empathize. The people who help me and the people who need help. So I help and then I notice all the people that need help. We are everywhere. The more I help the more I realize I need help. And because I was raised to love myself as I love my neighbor I stop helping others and turn the help inwards. Some people call this selfish. They can go fuck themselves. (Which we all do anyway but because no one likes to talk about it or even recognize that it’s a normal part of life, we are offended when someone says go fuck yourself).
My interpretation of the golden rule is a good example of the constructs. Someone might hear my belief and hold a similar belief, the pastor of a mega-church may share their belief and an entire congregation will send up thousands of supports to hold up their version of the vagaries we all seem to insist upon. While I might knock down some people’s constructs, some other constructs will rise in its place, directly as a result of my cutting others down. There is no action that adds without subtracting or subtracts without adding. The idea that one is good and the other is bad is simply another part of the same vagaries we all maintain. Every person in a giant sphere. Close, but no one exactly on the same plane. Each one of us with a slightly different perspective than the person next to them. Each perspective growing more and more different until you look up and see the person directly opposite you in the sphere. You will think he is above and you below. The problem, is he may think exactly the same thing about you. So we draw lines. Lines from person to person, creating understanding. Yet this mostly fails because each line has a motive, so in reality there are two parallel lines running from person to person rather than a two way exchange, back and forth. There is instead a line for one and a line for the other: while one person shows their perspective, the other person does the same, simultaneously. Neither one paying attention to the other.
A short story, 2018.
By Marcus Jonathan Chapman
I stepped out of the Vault. I could only stomach so many drinks on open mic night. I lit a cigarette and closed my eyes for the first inhale. The pure puff. I didn’t need a reason to drink but the first cigarette after wetting my throat was as good as any. I could feel the smoke coating all the way down to my esophagus. I held for a second then let the smoke waft out of my mouth.
I had gone out by myself. The feeling was exhilarating because I knew how others looked at the lonely guy at the bar. Going to parties or out with friends was predictable. Sure, I would laugh and make others laugh but there were so many other emotions. I flicked my cigarette and headed for the underground bar located two blocks away. I had only been there twice before. The crowd out front usually consisted of sun burnt felons with purchase stickers on their flipped-up baseball caps. The thought and the alcohol made my blood angry. I lit another cigarette to relieve the unwanted stress. Rounding a corner, I looked across the street at the entrance. A kid about 7 years old stood out front squatting down, tilting back and forth. After crossing the street, I saw it was a little girl. I was curious.
“What are you doing out here?”
She didn’t look up but responded cheerily.
“Waiting for my mommy.”
It was nearly midnight.
“Where is she?”
I became conscious of my cigarette.
“She’s downstairs.”
“In the bar?”
I flicked my cigarette away from her.
“Yeah.”
I thought about being noble and telling her mom off but decided that getting rid of my cancer stick was enough.
“Okay, well be careful up here.”
“Okay.”
“And don’t talk to strangers.”
“Okay.”
It wouldn’t ruin my evening because nothing beats the excitement of entering a bar. It feels like waiting for the ball to drop at the roulette table. Except the odds are always in my favor. I walked up to the bar and placed my bet.
“A jack and coke, please and a pint of whatever.”
I pushed the chair next to me a few inches further away. I always got too restless at the counter. The barkeep came back with my drinks and grabbed the money I put on the table. I was a winner. What I did with my winnings was unpredictable. Often, I never knew how an evening would end. I finished off the jack and coke in three gulps. There was more beer, so it took a few more swigs. It was time for a cigarette. The trip upstairs was a little more cautious than the jog down. I had plenty of time to pad my fresh pack, rip the plastic, tear the paper and flip a fag up with my thumb. I pulled the cigarette out with my lips and stepped outside. A couple were doubled over laughing and trying to say…something. I smiled and raised my eyebrows as I fished for my lighter.
The boyfriend made his way to me.
“Dude, dude, dude.”
“What’s up?” I chuckled to be polite, but his laughter was contagious.
“We just saw this homeless man.”
This sent them both into a guffaw. I sent out an amused snort, realizing I was trapped, at least until he got to the punchline. The girlfriend composed herself.
“We saw this homeless guy walk by and his pants were sagging all the way down PAST his ass.”
The boyfriend picked it up from there.
“And he was pushing his cart in front of him and shuffling like Frankenstein.”
The two lost it again and I thought about correcting the boyfriend. Doctor Frankenstein was the creator of the creature. The creature had no name. A device probably used to further the creatures struggle with its identity. I realized I was boring myself and didn’t think the couple would give a shit about what I had gleaned from my literary criticism class.
The couple’s laughter died down and we talked.
“I’m Charlie, Cigarette?” I offered.
I don’t remember their names, but we talked. Where you from? What do you do? How long have you lived there? They were nearing the fork in the conversation where strangers either become friends or never see each other again. Then the boyfriend said something that really impressed me.
“Well now that the bullshit is out of the way, how about some weed?”
I thought about it for a few cigarette drags.
“I appreciate the offer, but I had an experience with a demon in a bathroom the last time I mixed.”
“Oh shit, you trip out?”
“You could say that.”
“I’m sorry bro.”
“No worries, now I mainly stick to spirits.”
“Then let’s get a drink!”
We hoofed downstairs and livened up the near empty underground bar. We ordered drinks. The couple would talk. I would talk then we would all laugh. Nothing would be remembered in the morning. We all spoke freely. The girl sat down while the boyfriend and I laughed and patted each other on the back.
The boyfriend was getting horny.
“Babe, you tired? You want to leave?”
“No let’s just get out of here.”
“She’s right.” I said, “This place is dead. Let’s go to the Vault. It’s a bar just a couple blocks away. I want a cigarette anyway.”
We started our final trek up the stairs and the boyfriend shouted out.
“Fuck this place!”
I laughed and high-fived him while his girlfriend looked mortified.
I was drunk. I handed out cigarettes and cut across the street toward the Vault. By this time all the amateurs would be gone. It was time to do some drinking. The boyfriend ordered us three beers. I was extremely grateful, but I ordered another jack and coke. I didn’t like to take chances.
We bullshit some more. The couple danced. I can never remember names. Then the girl danced alone. I was towing the line between drunk and insanity. I sat quietly responding on auto-pilot. The girl stopped dancing and the boy went to the bathroom. She sat across from me and stared into my eyes. She bit her lip. Leaning on one arm she slid her finger up and down her bra strap.
I watched the tip of her finger from the top of her shoulder to the top of her breast. Her leg touched mine and mimicked the motion of her finger. I looked toward the bathroom. I stood up somber and put a cigarette in my mouth.
“Cigarette?” I offered.
She didn’t take the bait and continued lusting. I looked toward the bathroom.
“I think I’m going to take off. Where did your boyfriend go? What was his name?”
“Why don’t you stick around. He’ll be in there for a while. He’s sick.”
“Oh, well I’ll give him a cigarette when he comes out and call it a night.”
I was intently staring at the bathroom and looked up. I wanted to get the fuck out of there.
“Here, why don’t you give him the cigarette. I’m in and out of consciousness.”
I handed her the cigarette. She continued to stare. I could feel her horny, cheating eyes following me out the door. I stepped out of the Vault and lit a cigarette. I closed my eyes, feeling the smoke coat my throat, esophagus and lungs. I exhaled. Alone again.
A short piece of prose, or something.
by Marcus Jonathan Chapman
You get so up in your head that you want to flash back to your BMX with the two pegs to ride down the street and back as fast as you can.
Weeks go by. Years go by.
You get so far into your projections. You want to change.
Years go by. Decades go by.
You see your family the same but they’ve all changed but they haven’t stayed the same. You make the same mistakes but with bigger consequences. All around you the t-shirts change, the science changes, sensitivity changes but it’s all still the same.
The body ages but the mind grows chaotic: A frantic camper in the rain racing to drive down stakes into mud. Stuck to stories growing mold, fuzzy but always staying the same.
The sandman doesn’t sprinkle you with dust. St. Nick can’t give you what you want. Christ could be relatable if only he’d made mistakes. You bought the world’s spirits, elixirs and potions but snake oils only erase time for nothing in return. The tooth fairy took all your teeth but I think she also has your innocence, and you never saw a dime.
Too many cooks in the kitchen spoil the soup. Too many voices in your head spoil the creativity. You can spend time but you can never buy it.
The only option is to drive down stakes into moments you never want to let slip.
A short story incorporating three random words, written in 20 minutes.
by Marcus Jonathan Chapman
An ocean of booze is not enough to forget. It’ll still spit you up on shore and you’ll squint at the sun wondering how you got there. But you don’t forget. You never forget. So you jump back in, swim as far as your arms and legs will let you and stop, maybe thinking of something else, but you’ll eventually crawl back up the sand and feel the hot sun.
You wade back into the water, jumping the small waves, diving under the big ones until again, you’ve reached the chop of the ocean. Then you find yourself spitting out sand and protecting your eyes from the sun. You take a skiff out until the engine runs out of gas. You can’t see the shore and so you think this enough. So with no life preserver you jump into the water, moving your arms and legs just enough to keep your mouth free for air. You don’t want to die, just forget. Yet you find yourself stuck in the rocky crags at the mouth of the bay. Hands, feet, sides and head bleeding from the beating your body took to get back to shore.
After climbing back to the sand, you lay down, exhausted. The tide begins lapping at your feet, your legs, your thighs, your hands and you remember. You jump in a plane and fly for hours until the view below is all blue with ocean. You jump and think you’ll never remember again. Your body slaps the water, bruising all over. Later you wake up with coast guard above you and family members crying. And still the waves lap at your feet, you can’t forget. You never forget.
Now you hobble back down to the waters edge, your legs are wobbly, arms feel like lead and that little ball of light inside you is dimming. You fall into the water pushing yourself crawling into the deep of the ocean. Why not just turn around and forget the water completely? Why keep trying to find the deep?
How do you cope with what you can’t forget? How do you manage what you remember? How do you prevent the memories from drowning you if you never stop jumping into the ocean?
by Marcus Jonathan Chapman
God’s coming she’s just tying her shoe laces and once she gets her kicks on she’s gonna kick some ass. At least that’s what grandpa told me. He assured me, on multiple occasions that every mother fucker would get their comeuppance. Not exactly in those words but something like that.
Grandpa also said that if I kept up my hustle the money would flow in. That seemed like more pertinent, relevant advice than anything about god. If I had to wait for god to tie her shoes, then I might as well lace up mine and get out there to kill some time.
Grandpa and god. Two figures that let me down, albeit unintentionally. Grandpa let me down, not with his words but with his actions and god can’t let me down or lift me up, if you catch my drift. Grandpa could fix a car, build a house or make water flow in any direction through pipes. What grandpa couldn’t do was make himself better.
I remember the things he said about god and shit. He pointed at the stars and told me which constellation Jesus would return from, where heaven is, where I told grandpa he would be when I held his hand right before his last breath. I remember the way grandpa smelled after working on his cars. He washed his hands with a cavernous bar of soap and when he hugged me the smell of motor oil and grease was overwhelming. I wish he’d told me more about fixing cars, pipes and houses than he did about god. I can fix a car, I can’t do anything with the other information.
I remember the way he used to say orange, “oyenge.” I loved it. For a few years I made myself pronounce the color and fruit like that. Right up until he turned on the car, hooked up a hose from the exhaust pipe to the driver’s side window and closed the garage. He might have met god that day had grandma not opened the garage door and found him.
Like a plumb in my memory is grandpa. The skin is bitter and I have to get past it to get to the sweetness in the middle. I loved him. As for that other figure, what’s there to say?
3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by https://wordcounter.net/random-word-generator
The duplex shook from the beats and the dancing. No conversations were really had. A few people mouthed words at each other but no one could tell if they were actually speaking.
Standing on the weaker spots of the hard wood floor, your eyes couldn’t adjust because of the vibrations.
For days after, attendees complained about the constant ringing echoing in their heads. When they compared notes they realized the ring was pulling their attention from anything else.
The part was one of those events that you can recall in slow motion in your head. I wonder if that has always happened or if movies created that phenomena?
Wrists hanging in the air and flopping in time to music. The guy walking sideways through everyone, looking pale, trying to make it to the bathroom or at least outside. The girl with her eyes closed, detached from everyone around her, just dancing.
The memory stays long in the mind, perhaps fuzzy around the edges but still pulled into sharp focus. An experience of many bodies becoming one body of positive energy.
A good party is the euphoria preachers attribute to heavenly things. Their tone beginning to sound bitter about putting off instant pleasure when they elaborate and expound for hours on how great the rewards after death will be.
A good party and the memory of having been there, swaying with the rest. god’s breath moving all the blades of grass to and fro in unison. but a god isn’t necessary to the partiers.
Or perhaps I was drunk and it wasn’t so great. The memory, though is still a good one.
Here’s to party’s and the glimpse of memory you may be lucky enough to have of them.
Whilst making a living... 