"And held in such high esteem, reaching for a lofty dream, yet the pain so sharp the failure real, that that was all that he could feel," Boris said, finishing as he looked up at Carol, Burt and Larry seated around him in the living room area of the home. He shuffled his feet, cleared his throat and asked, "So, what do you think?"
"I like poems that come in greeting cards," Burt said. "Yeah, well, I like when you shut up," Boris replied, making Carol laugh. "I think it's great, but it's a bit...heavy," Carol said, "Does it have to be so heavy? Surely you could find a way to rhyme with beauty, poise and elegance instead of misery and suffering. Aim higher, not lower, Boris, and then you'd find your niche audience." "I'm not doing this for an audience. Writing poetry has never been about fame or success, it's been about putting myself down on paper in a way that I couldn't put myself out there in person," Boris said, sitting back down and looking at his poem again, sighing as he added, "...maybe I really just aren't good enough." "Poppycock, it isn't about being good enough, you don't have to be good at something to do it," Carol said, "Look at the people who become politicians. No. All that matters is that you want to do it and you make it happen. I think whatever you write is fine, and that should be enough." "You just told me it was too heavy," Boris said, looking up across at her, confused. "And what do I know? I'm not a literary scholar," Carol said, "Let a professional editor decide that, and if they also don't like it, fuck 'em, self publish it. We live in an age now where you can make your dreams come true, no matter how big or small they are." Boris nodded, chewing his lip, before standing up and excusing himself to get a snack. As he walked away, the others watched before Burt looked back at Carol and Larry and shrugged. "I still like my greeting card idea," he said. "I will kill you," Boris shouted back at him from across the room, making him flinch. *** "I just don't think that it's what I'm supposed to be doing," Boris said, pushing his food around on his plate with his fork, sighing, "...I just...I write poetry to cope with things, and things have been rough lately. Between Ellen and then that thing with Leanne, I just have not been feeling too well and writing poetry helps me feel better." "Well then," Whittle said as she sat down at the table with her own plate, "why don't you submit something somewhere? See what a publication has to say?" "We had to write poems in class last year," Chrissy said, "My teacher told us to stick to visual descriptors, and not just write freeform." "What the hell does that mean?" Boris asked, making Whittle laugh. "Beats me," Chrissy said, shrugging, "I was just as confused as you are." "I didn't used to have this problem," Boris said, "I used to be able to just...let it pour out of me, but now...now it feels like everything I do is a challenge. Like...like I have nothing real left to say or nothing left to examine and that's scary. What do you do when you've lived so long that you don't feel anything new?" "I think you should still just write whatever you want," Whittle said, "There's people out there who'll enjoy it, no matter what it is. Everyone has an audience somewhere." Boris leaned back in his chair and ruminated on this, then realized she was right. He did have an audience. Maybe he'd go see them. *** "That gnawing ache, the one when you break, it can instead be taught to soothe; the end won't be near, there'll be nothing to fear, and the ache will help the pain move," Boris finished reading, looking to his right at the little mesh window in the confessional; he cleared his throat and asked, "So, what do you think?" "I think your skill is obvious," Father Krickett said, "but it doesn't sound sincere. It sounds like you're trying to sound sincere. Almost as if you're attempting to imitate the very sincerity that once permeated your old poetry." "...that...is certainly not something I've been told yet, so thank you," Boris said. "Can we not do this through the confessional? It's awkward," Father Krickett said, and the two men each exited their boxes and faced one another, now standing in between the pews; Father Krickett smoothed his garment and sighed, "sorry, I get oddly claustrophobic in those things. Anyway, your heart is in the right place-" "-thank goodness, because if it wasn't that'd be a serious medical emergency," Boris said, interrupting and making Father Krickett smirk. "but," Father Krickett continued, "I think your can get back to that sincerity. I don't think it's gone. You just need to stop trying to imitate who you used to be and a new version of the person you once were. More experienced, more insightful, perhaps a bit worse for wear but overall well aged. The elderly are like a fine wine, they grow more beautiful through time, and after enough years, they become what we all aspire to be." Boris raised an eyebrow in confusion as he whispered, "...wine?" "That was a weird analogy, I'm sorry, I'm just not myself today," Father Krickett said, rubbing his face, making Boris chuckle. "I appreciate it John," Boris said, patting the priests back, "and for what it's worth you're not wrong. I think of all the people I've come to for some sort of inspiration, you've been the one to give me the best input thusfar. Maybe I'll sleep on it and see what comes out tomorrow." Later that evening, however, after Boris had fallen asleep, he was awoken abruptly by a sound in the kitchen. He quickly stood up, slipped his slippers on, fastened his robe belt around his waist and headed down the hall. Whatever it was, nobody else had heard it, because both Whittle and Chrissy were still sound asleep, no light coming from under their bedroom doors. Boris continued down the hall of the apartment and finally reached the kitchen, where he spotted a youngish looking woman sitting at the table, drinking from a scotch bottle. "You're finally here, thank god," Polly said, "Pull up a chair, have a glass." Boris stared in disbelief. It was Polly, that much couldn't be refuted, but she looked to be in her twenties. Boris nodded slowly and approached the table, grabbing a glass off the counter on his way there. He sat down and watched as she poured him his drink and then poured herself more. "What are you doing here?" he asked. "Drinking scotch," Polly said, flinging her bangs out of her eyes and smiling, "course, it isn't good scotch, but you never were one to spend much on quality. What are you doing here?" she asked, leaning forward and crossing her arms, surprising him. "I...I live here?" he responded. "No, Boris, I mean what are you doing here? What are you actually doing? Because it seems to me that you ain't doin' nothin'," Polly said, leaning back and sipping her drink, continuing with, "in fact, it seems you're trying to do anything other than something. You got all this guilt, all this pain, all this angst, and yet you can't write." "Those things don't make a writer," Boris said, "They enhance the way you view the world, sure, but they aren't necessary. My pain doesn't have to be financially viable for it to mean something." "So if you don't wanna work from those, what else is there?" Polly asked, lifting her legs up on the table and leaning back in her chair, relaxing, "...what about the opposite of those things? Why not focus on something that means something instead of the idea that nothing means anything?" "...you meant something," Boris said, and Polly grinned, leaned forward again and grabbed his hand, patting it. "Then go with that," she said. And then he woke up. *** "She was frustration, an itch you can't scratch, she was frustration, clothes that won't match, she was frustration, a rock in your shoe, she was frustration, photos hung askew. She was frustration, but she was my friend, and nothing frustrated me more than to see her life end. Now I am frustration, a shirt covered in fur, but I'm mostly frustrated that I can't be with her." Boris looked up across from himself, at the headstone with Polly's name on it. He sighed and lowered his head again, sighing. "I know it isn't great, but it's something," he said softly, exhaling, "you were the only thing that meant something to me aside from my daughter, and I just never expected you to be gone. I'm not even mad that you died, I'm mad that you're dead, does that make sense? The act of dying? Impossible to avoid. Can't blame you for that. But the act of continuing to stay dead? That seems spiteful, personal, like it's directed at me, and I love you for it," Boris said chuckling. He folded the paper up and tucked it under a candle left on the base of the headstone, before shuffling beside it, leaning against it and looking out at the graveyard in peace. "my best friends in this world are a priest and a dead woman," he said quietly, "and yet somehow, that seems right. Thanks for irritating me all those years. You really made old age worth it." Boris then sighed, put his palms into the dirt and stood himself up. He wiped his hands on his pants and then shoved them in his coat pockets, looking back down at her grave. "I'll be back next week," he said, "I'll bring lunch,"; He turned and started to leave, then stopped and turned back, adding, "don't you go anywhere on me." *** God, wasn't it Friday yet? All Elise Bentley wanted to do was go home for the weekend. Have a few beers, take a long hot bath and watch some old favorite comedies. She would order in. She would give into her most primal urges. But it wasn't Friday yet. It was Wednesday, and it wouldn't be Friday for a while still. Elise, walking down the hall in her suit, heading towards her office, was flipping through files in her hands when her assistant approached and walked alongside her. "Do you want coffee?" her assistant, Niah, asked. "It's the middle of the goddamned day, why would I want coffee?" Elise asked, stopping and looking at her young, African American assistant; she smirked and said, "Run downtown, go to that really fancy bakery, and get cocoa, and like...a box of glazed donut holes. And get a few things for yourself. Put it on my company card, alright?" Niah smiled, nodded and headed the opposite direction just as Elise got to her office. She entered and looked up, almost screaming as she jumped backwards, hand to her chest. Sitting in the chair across from her desk was her equal in the company, Dennis Bortcham. "God dammit Dennis, you scared the shit out of me," Elise said. "Sorry!" Dennis said, grinning, turning around and around in the chair excitedly, "but it's worth it, you're gonna love what I brought you today." "I hope so, we haven't had anything good in ages," Elise said, seating herself behind the desk and beginning to look through the pile quickly, "pfffft...rejected twice already and I wish they'd stop sending me stuff, this is smut, this is smut, this is decently written smut and I'll take it home for private reading," she said, shifting one folder to the side and making Dennis laugh as she continued, "god, it just seems like I cannot catch a break." "People ain't writin' anymore, it's a dead artform," Dennis said. "The bookstores would tend to disagree," Elise said. "The ones full of books nobody will read?" Dennis asked. "If nobody's writing and nobody's reading, what the hell is everyone doing with their time?" Elise asked, and Dennis shrugged. "I don't know, drugs?" he responded. "Not a bad guess actually," Elise said, "I need to get some drugs." "Well, I'll see what else comes in, but you're gettin' a little picky. You're gonna have to just choose something eventually, otherwise your literary magazine won't have any literature." As Dennis stood up from the chair and headed towards the door, Elise snapped her fingers repeatedly at him, causing him to stop and turn to face her again. She was looking down at a file clutched in her hands, open, reading it quickly. "Yeah?" he asked. "...Dennis," she said, starting to grin, "find me everything you can on Boris Wachowski."
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Golden Years follows the exploits of a bunch of old people in a retirement home as they try to have fun, relax or come to terms with the soon to be end of their lives. Archives
April 2024
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