Donald L. Vasicek

Tag: love

  • “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face”

    by
    Donald L. Vasicek
    First North American Serial Rights
    About 600 words

    Maybe it was the Mayan symbol for sun tatoo just down
    over your rounded, smooth shoulder. Or the sleeveless,
    flower print dress garnished with those white, little
    daisies against the background of the navy blue cloth, that sort of
    of clung on your hard body like a sack. I don’t know what
    caused it.

    I know I watched your breasts heaving against the
    flowers, behind the cloth each time you took a breath. I
    knew they were there.

    And as you talked, I watched your smooth lips, like
    quarters of fresh peach slices, cause some magic. Yes,
    it was magic that day.

    Up and until then, I always thought of you
    as sweet, young and in China. I wanted to help you like I
    do Panther now that the embolism took away most of his
    right hind leg.

    You know, sort of a be-there-all-the-time-guy to catch
    you when you fall, I guess. Who in the hell knows? Well,
    shit, I know and I’m bleeding to death because of it.

    I walk the halls of life like a paper cup blowing
    across a parking lot. First, I shoot off like a rocket.
    Then, I pause. I wait. I need an attack. And something
    comes along and pushes me so violently I zig zag and bump
    up and down.

    Then, just as brutally, I’m sucked up into this vacuum
    and whipped like cream. I fly from side-to-side and drift
    up into the air like God gave me a gentle shove. Finally, I
    flutter to the asphalt parking lot and a Humvee runs over
    me.

    Since that day I’ve been a stranger to myself.
    It was the words you spoke that day. It was how you
    spoke them. It was how you talked limitlessly, unguarded,
    secure, happy and confident in yourself. You burrowed into
    me with your shyness tapping your finger just above your
    mouth on the right side. Your words. Your unruffled face.
    The sparkle of your blue eyes against your pristine black,
    so black, wavy, soft hair, mauled me. And yet, your hair
    was sort of a rust color like Panther’s sheer black coat
    when a sliver of sun slices across him like it did to you
    across the table from me that day.

    It’s a dichotomy, you know. Faultless black with a
    wedge of rust in it. Nothing is perfect, or is it?
    It were as though I changed from one minute to
    the next that day. We met for lunch just like we had all
    those times before. To talk film. Books. To talk
    writing. Politics. Denver. Columbine. Jeff. Moving to
    LA. The Women In Film Group. Your dad. Your mom.
    Juney and Anthony. Baltimore. Your script.
    My script. My, my, my.

    And when you pushed the salad into your mouth, you
    know, the lettuce, the tomato, the cabbage, the sprouts,
    the sunflower seeds, the carrots, the cucumbers and the
    pinch of vinegar and oil, I watched you like I beheld THE
    CIDER HOUSE RULES. They sort of folded into each other and
    disappeared somewhere inside of you.

    It was like reading an Elmore Leonard novel. I couldn’t
    wait to get to the next word, the next sentence, the next
    paragraph, the next page, the next chapter and the end of
    the book. Even though I was working my ass off immersed in
    you without even realizing it, the essence of your being
    permeated my subconscious mind. It nailed the fortress of
    your sum and substance into me. I was hammered into a
    consciousness that twisted my life around like a corkscrew.

    Before that day, I perceived you as a sweet, young
    woman who was bright, worldly, naive about the film
    business and your heart, and attractive. I never gave one
    thought to loving you. Not one thought before that day.

    You were too genuinely nice to me. Too innocent-like. So,
    so delightful. You accepted me for who I was. A
    writer/filmmaker. Mostly positive, pleasant, but a pariah.

    A renegade. I spoke like one about how we treat animals
    and how we should treat animals. And about guns and
    Charlton Heston and how I wondered if I should send him a
    card of praise everytime someone was killed by a gun or
    when he read the BIBLE on PBS. Somehow, it reminded
    me when I first noticed that our town mayor was
    someone who murdered animals and he went to
    church every Sunday. How can that be?

    You laughed. Just laughed and looked into my eyes.

    I’m still not sure if you agreed or disagreed with me. The
    thing that probably riveted me to you more than anything
    else was how closely you and I were able to talk with each
    other. We were able to be our human selves.

    Isn’t that remarkable? It made me feel as though
    we were one. Since then, I haven’t been able to
    think about anything or anyone else except you.
    Well, maybe, except Panther and my writing.

    How can this be, darling? You’ve gone off with some
    handsome dude, a good guy, and I saw you being pregnant,
    and I didn’t even get to tell you that I love you.

  • “Annabelle, My Love”

    First, just a slight sound. Sort of I’m frightened,
    but I want to do this. Not in words, but her eyes,
    there a murky green with rounded pupils as large
    as dimes.

    They shed love on me. “Please, help me. Please,
    I want to die.”

    I leaned down to her ear. “Annabelle, I love you.
    I will always be with you.”

    She suddenly felt warm next to my hand on her
    shoulder. Emaciated, six years old, and dying.
    I stroked her. I nodded to Dr. Green.

    She removed a needle from her white smock,
    in one of those large pockets.

    “I love you, Sweety. I’ll always love you. I
    will always be with you.”

    It happened in a short second, or less. Dr.
    Green slipped the tip of the needle into a
    catheter on Annabelle’s right leg, which was
    wrapped in a royal blue cloth. Dr. Green
    pushed her thumb on the butt of the needle
    holder.

    I looked at Annabelle. Her eyes looked at me.
    Then, she died. Her eyes, frozen in death,
    stared at me. No breathing now.

    Her shoulder, skin and bone, some black and
    white hair, quiet and dead now.

    Where was I to go without Annabelle? Home,
    I decided. That’s where she wanted to go, I
    knew. I buried her under the cherry tree in
    the shade, one of her favorite places.

    It is so quiet without Annabelle. Who can I
    turn to now? Annabelle’s eyes instructed me
    to follow the bright star in the East, Venus, I
    believe, someone named it that. She said that
    is where you will find your direction “without me.”

    “Go there. It will give you information you do
    not now have. It will give you information that
    you can utilize.”

    When I looked at Venus the next morning at
    4 a.m., during my run, I saw my life in front
    of me. It was clear.

    Dick Sutphen’s THE LAW OF NEW BEGINNINGS:

    For each of us in our time, there are major life
    turning points. There is a break in the energy
    wave patterns and complete change results.
    Everything is affected this change in flux; some
    things to a lesser degree than others. Examples
    would be: 1. A traumatic situation or tragedy,
    such as the death of a loved one. 2. A religious
    conversion. 3. A point in therapy when
    something clicks and from that time on the
    patient begins to get well. 4. A mother giving
    birth to a baby. The lesson is to learn to take
    advantage of these new beginnings.

    This is Annabelle’s legacy to me.

    I let go of Annabelle. I am writing, something I haven’t
    done to any great extent for eight years
    since I began “The Sand Creek Massacre”
    film project. Although there is a physical void
    without Annabelle, she is with me…always.