they call her out by her name : josie hutton

[chasing sunday]

<center>
O fallen angel,
the companion within me,
whisper something <s>holy</s>
before you pinch me
into the grave.
--anne sexton</center>

<font color="#FFCC00" size="1">[ January 19, 2006 04:41 PM: Message edited by: sunday phantom ]</font>

[chasing sunday]

<center>When I think of heaven (Deliver me in a black-winged bird)
I think of dying--Lay me down in a field of flame and heather
Render up my body into the burning heart of God in the belly of a black-winged bird
Don't try to bleed me
I've been here before and I deserve a little more.
---counting crows/rain king
------------------------------------------</center>

"I don't think we should be doing this," she said in a voice cut low and shivering in nervousness that had her skin tingling. Josie was pressed back in the booth, against the wall with a dark haired, young man firmly against her. It might have been safe to say that he didn't hear her; so wrapped up in the kisses he slanted over her jaw--so lost in the motion of his broad hands over her slim framework. He murmured something, but it wasn't words and it certainly wasn't something Josie wanted to hear.

"I don't think we should be doing this," she repeated a little louder. She repeated in a stronger voice, to gain his attention but it was mostly to remind herself, to confirm her words with herself. His hands were still moving, along with his kisses. She could smell his cologne. She could smell and then taste the lingering moisture of beer on his tongue. He gave the same reply; something low, something gutteral, something that had her spine jumping in a shiver that jolted her soul.

"We cannot be doing this--Stop it!" Even when angered, Josie was still soft and burning so hotly in an innocence that most people could hardly tell that she was mad at all. Sometimes, though, sometimes she'd let her rage flare like solar pulses. Sometimes, she'd scream until her throat was raw and her face cherry red. That happened, then. There was a commotion, almost too quick to follow by the human eye. Limbs were scrambling and tangling up, but it wasn't her reacting in a way that he had hoped. Josie was crawling over him, along the booth to make her escape.

When he grabbed her arm, she looked at him with eyes that seared in anger. In hate. There was a sharp sound, contact of skin on skin. She smacked him with such a force that her palm was left burning from it. He got the point. He let her go.

And go she did. Josie stalked away without looking back. He was her first boyfriend. But after that night, she never saw him again.

That was four years ago.

Not much had changed.

[chasing sunday]

<center>
In my favorite prayer I apologize for not
having shouted earlier and in public say
from the back of the subway the top
of a table in a Fort Worth bar that whither
thou goest I will follow.
---bob hicock 'whither thou goest'
-------------------------------------------</center>

There were two. There were two that she met over the last week that were completely different from each other. One reminded her of something seen out of a magazine; a brooding man with a strange vibe to him that she could only explain as angelic. He had her curiosity on the rise like never before. He had her craving to dig deeper, beyond his skin to get to the inside and read his most secured secrets. There was a story behind the man with a number for a name. It was a hint of a story that she could feel and see each time their eyes made fleeting contact or hear whenever his voice leaked low from his mouth.

An artist. She was surprised that she had not guessed with the way his fingers seemed stained in some sort of hope, with the way his clothing carried splatters of paint. Even now, as she sprawled across her bed in her modest church clothing, she wondered if he'd actually call. He did have her number. She could only imagine what his work could be like; the images he sculpted into something as close to real life as he could get. There was a switch-flip of thoughts. She held visions of the other man:

He carried something dark on his sleeve. There was something off lurking in his shadow even though he was always full of smiles and he could almost (almost) pass for something ordinary.

He was anything but.

Boldness lashed across his tongue in ways that managed to throw her off; toss her into a maddening loop that left her dizzy and uneasy. If there was something to be said, he'd say it. He seemed like the type that went for what he wanted come hell or high water. A man that let nothing stand in his way.

Those were the types that always got to her. Somewhere in the back of her mind a warning flag raised high. Yet, there was something else telling her that she was only paranoid. There was something else telling her that he was nothing but a simple man and whatever thoughts she had of steering clear from him should be forgotten.

So different. And she was curious about both. There was an old saying that jumped through her mind when she peeled herself from the bed--ready to step out into the street to visit a certain place where she'd met both:

Curiosity killed the cat.

[chasing sunday]

<center>Here come the world
With the look in its eye
Future uncertain -- but certainly slight
Look at the faces -- listen to the bells
It's hard to believe we need a place called hell
A place called hell.
--inxs/devil inside
------------------------------------------------
</center>


"Mom, it's happening again." Her voice was broken down in a confession that should've been passed off in a booth. But this confession, Josie's little confession was happening over the telephone. The cordless was tucked to her ear, pressed against the sharpness of her shoulder while she paced through the small apartment. Sunlight leaked in slants through the cracks of half-opened blinds. She paused near a picture hanging crookedly on the wall to straighten it. Her fingers shook along the wood frame and the picture almost tumbled to the floor before she ever got it looking right. "Not so bad, but--it's all just beginning, again. I think. I think. I don't know."

"Josephine, calm down. Tell me what happened." From the other end; a calm yet stern tone from the older Hutton woman. Sandra Hutton, with her hair almost the same shade as her daughters and the same dark eyes of brown. Not nearly as timid as Josie, but neither of her parents were timid. "Everything will be okay. Should I set you up an appointment with Doctor Guist? Tell me what happened, dear." Sandra had laugh lines around her mouth that didn't quite fit the brooding look her eyes always carried. Even now, they were narrowed in concern.

"No. No. I think I will be all right. I just--some small things happened. I've been blanking out again, I think. I've been doing things that I shouldn't, I think. Not terrible things, I guess it's just the forgetting--the forgetting is what really concerns me." Josie sugar-coated the brutal truth. She didn't confess about smacking a man in the head, she didn't dare say that not even two days later, she kicked the same man for no reason at all other than the fact that she felt like it.

"I think maybe you're spending too much time in that apartment and you're simply growing paranoid. Fresh air would do you some good. I've told you--make some friends, invite them to church. Have you made friends, Josephine?" Josephine. The sound of it made Josie cringe. Her mother's tone still held the stern ring to it, yet there was the edge of something warm, something caring that most would never pick up--those that didn't know the woman, anyway.

"Yes, mom. I've made a few. And I have invited them. Mom? Hey, I have to go. I'll see you Wednesday night, okay? Love you." Josie abruptly ended the call, mostly afraid of what else she'd admit or confess over the wires. She pressed the end button on the cordless before tapping the small, black covered antenna against her chin. She set the phone on the base and spanned a look around her small apartment. Modest. Everything about her was modest.

Maybe her mother was right. Maybe she needed to get out more.

Right when Josie shut the door behind her for a nightly escapade, she could hear a rumble of thunder drumming through the sky. And in the exact moment her foot hit the sidewalk leading down the street lined in dogwoods and bradford pears, it began to rain.

<font color="#FFCC00" size="1">[ March 08, 2005 10:00 PM: Message edited by: sunday phantom ]</font>

[chasing sunday]

--And that she says nothing but thank you
when he finally moves his hands in the pattern
we call making change: that she doesn't
kick the Hostess display or cop a few dozen
Bazooka Joes: that even her dreams of revenge
have her holding an unloaded gun:
have her thinking please be kind please
let there be dignity in the small moments
grace in the graceless acts let me live
through this day not wanting to hate
not wanting to kill: that she wonders
driving away in her cloud of a car
if she didn't do something wrong if there isn't
something cataclysmic in her face something
offensive in the architecture of her nose
makes her a saint a stupid saint a saint
who'll get no holiday no entry in the Emerald
Book of Saints so you and I must agree
on a name that she'll be known
as the Stop-n-Go Saint the Burger King
Saint that as we wait in line we'll grind
our teeth in prayer tap our feet in homage
that when we lean in and grab
a fist of shirt a fist of hair and scream
give me the goddamn burger now we'll
say please we'll chant thank you we'll pick up
our condiments and slip them neatly
into the trash.
--- from birth of a saint/bob hicok.

<font color="#FFCC00" size="1">[ March 17, 2005 01:54 PM: Message edited by: sunday phantom ]</font>

[chasing sunday]

You can look at the menu, but you just can't eat
You can feel the cushion, but you can't have a seat
You can dip your foot in the pool, but you can't have a swim
You can feel the punishment, but you can't commit the sin

And you want her, and she wants you
We want everyone
And you want her and she wants you
No one, no one, no one ever is to blame

You can build a mansion, but you just can't live in it
You're the fastest runner but you're not allowed to win
Some break the rules, and let you cut the cost
The insecurity is the thing that won't get lost

And you want her, and she wants you
We want everyone
And you want her and she wants you
No one, no one, no one ever is to blame

You can see the summit but you can't reach it
It's the last piece of the puzzle but you just can't make it fit
Doctor says you're cured but you still feel the pain
Aspirations in the clouds but your hopes go down the drain

And you want her, and she wants you
We want everyone
And you want her and she wants you
No one, no one, no one ever is to blame

No one, no one, no one ever is to blame
--howard jones/no one is to blame


------------------------------------------------

It was a game. It was a prank. It was something that wasn't real. It was a lie.

And it all happened so suddenly.

At the mere suggestion, he answered with a simple okay. She had tried almost everything else, this seemed to be one of her wild plans that she prayed would work. They were everywhere lately; odd meetings that had her exploding with a rage of fists and gnashing teeth. She couldn't take it anymore.

Still, she had to remind herself--it was a game. The rings were only rings and the affections shared in public were only for show. None of it meant anything. Nothing.

It wasn't easy to live such a lie. She felt bad, because she had always been an honest girl. Or at least, she always had tried.

To say the least, out of everyone she'd met lately, she trusted John the most. Trusted him enough that she let him in on the plan, or rather, she asked him in on the plan. She was shocked that he agreed. It was a friendship that bloomed quicker than any she'd had before. And now it was a friendship that was masquerading as a marriage. She wondered how long it would be before their cover was blown.

She wondered how long she could play the part of a wife when in public eyes. It wasn't easy sharing kisses and bouts of affection when the truth of the matter ballooned in her mind.

No, this wouldn't be easy at all.

[chasing sunday]

<center></center>

<font color="#FFCC00" size="1">[ March 26, 2005 09:54 PM: Message edited by: sunday phantom ]</font>

[chasing sunday]

There were more and more people coming into the scheme of things--new faces that left her uneasy even though some of them were sketched out in lines of softness with calm lingering in their eyes.

Or others--the opposite, like the wildcat Roulette who shrieked strange things toward the Lamb on the first encounter. It left her curious. It left her wondering. She wanted to sit down with that one and have a one on one--even if it risked getting her eyes clawed out (because that one had violence written all over her skin).

Josie never felt so tugged and pulled in so many directions that she was certain by the end she'd rip at the seams. Between them all, her life was nothing but constant words of how this one was wrong, how that one lies, how he kills or she steals. It was a new story every day and she wanted another person to view things from the outside. Roulette, even though Josie had only met her once, seemed like that type of person--harsh, perhaps, but it just might set her on the right course--or at least give her a clue on how to handle all of the madness surrounding her.

But John. She was growing more fond of him day by day, and every word from Saint was like a stab to the heart.

[chasing sunday]

<center>
Service

In the hospital he moans he was wrong, insists through delirium
the spirit hadn't moved on him the way
he'd thought. Clyde Dawkins shook the box tonight,
closed his eyes and reached in, let head or tail come,

held the rattler before his face and began preaching against the tide
of filth, the pollution of the body delivered
to bliss. They shall take up serpents; and if they drink
any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them.

Stu Wallace beat a tune out of his guitar, a penitential music,
kicked his good foot against the side
of the stage and stared at the shadow of the Lord as it slid
across Clyde. August in Kentucky, shirts with their half-moons

of sweat, the women's hair piled into blond and red pagodas.
To believers, everything palpable's
ordained. The misery of the man who owned this gas station,
who shot himself in Nashville and willed the property

to Roberta Devins, first row, head back and singing He's God
in Alabama, He's God in Tennessee.
The guilt of Ray Chandler, whose fingers harass the piano,
who often dreams of a boy with his pants down,

the boy's smile a gate. And Clyde's hands, Clyde's face, his body
offered to a faith sacrificial at its core,
that looks beyond rosary and Bible, beyond water and blood, beyond the eyes of Jesus staring down from the cross--

who forgave the act but not the joy of crucifixion--and worships
ecstasy, pain coiled with pleasure,
and wants a man to take up snakes, to handle the Angel of Death
and survive, and fail prophetically. Tonight the snake spun

and struck, the forty-third time Clyde's been bitten, a number
Loreen Eliston converts to seven, Seven
angels who had seven plagues. Before sleeping he grips
his wife's hand, repeats he was at fault, a blindess

to the will of Jesus. In the waiting room she reports to the massed
congregation, tells the eleven souls
Clyde will be fine, repeats what he said and notes that facts
conform to scripture, for though he writhes he breathes

God's air. And after praying they discuss next week, decide when
they'll meet, who'll bring the snakes,
who'll mix the strychnine from which they'll sip, sewing up
the practical details of their faith.

--bob hicok.
</center>

[chasing sunday]

It was Sunday and there was a break in the church activities. Josie returned to the apartment, searching for the door key and at the same time--the exact same moment, her gaze swam over the door itself. More importantly, she was staring at the note dangling by the loose hold of bubble gum.

It wasn't torn down until she read it.

And when she had, she ripped it apart through tears and mumbled curses.

She was beginning to think, really think that Saint was right. Or would have if she hadn't known the truth that Roulette had spilled out to her.