Martin Buber Encounters an Oak Tree

It stands alone in a field of tall, yellow grass.
He is just out of its reach, shunning its shade for the bright, skin-leathering sun.
Martin imagines a seed falling from the sky and crashing into the soil with the force of--what to call it?--pure being. It sends a tree sprouting up like a mushroom cloud; full growth in 30 seconds, standing somewhere outside of time,
outside of space,
outside of Martin.
He peels away the dissecting sections of his analytical intellect like so many layers of rain soaked clothing.
He watches his silver blue soul slide out of himself, into the grizzled gray brown bark.

These Buffalo Suck

Our relationship has become a perfect meadow. Clover, tulips, and tall grass, honey bees and
anti-personnel mines.
Our little purveyors of pain used to be stuck up in the north-west corner of the fields, sequestered away where the hills roll into the dark woods, where soft green slowly burns into shadow under the barren, steely trees.
But mines migrate. They are less the flying V and more the plodding herd of buffalo, quiet but powerful and deadly. They are so unobtrusive as to become part of the scenery itself, merely a prop for a landscape painter until they’ve migrated their way directly in front of you, seventy-three half-ton claymore mine creatures.
You can’t step on them.
They’re buffalo.
But a misplaced word, a noun where there should be a verb and they explode in a flash of orange-white light, sending chunks of blood-clumped brown fur, meat and bone flying at me in a tidal wave of passive aggressive gore and self-deprecating apologies delivered with all of the melancholy resignation to Fate of a 23 year old Japanese civilian turned once-pilot, climbing over the bright red Rising Sun into the cockpit of his dynamite-laden Mitsubishi Zero, keeping his left hand securely in the pocket of his grayish green flight-suit, thumb pressing hard and rubbing slow circles around the face of a black and white photograph.

Going Out--a very short story

The last gulp of floral, bitter pale ale flooded his mouth, finishing his sixth pint since dinner. He couldn't tell whether it was the alcohol or the loud music that made the pulsing feeling in his chest a little less bearable than usual. He hastily called to the bartender to close out his tab, picked up his jacket off the back of the stool and dropped the receipt next to his empty glass with '1.00' scribbled on the dashed tip line. He felt the weight of all their eyes on him as he left with the young blond from across the room. “Fuck them,” he told himself. Even in his mind, his voice cracked. The neon Miller Lite and Detroit Lions signs left faint glowing trails of blue and white in his peripheral vision as he pushed his way out into the mild summer night.

He suppressed the cool midnight air with a Black clove cigarette. He basked in her fawning gaze while he cupped his hand over the lighter, enjoying the crackling burn of his first drag before offering her a slender cylinder of her own. In silence, they watched their breath diffuse into silver-white wisps slithering into the streetlight. He flicked his half-finished cigarette to the curb and sauntered over to his '99 Ford Mustang that his father had called 'Lightning Blue.' They could still hear the faint din of Friday from the bar half a block away when, feigning indifference, he gestured for her to get in.

While they ascended the second flight of beige-flecked carpet up to apartment 203, he pretended that she didn't notice the suffocating smell of cigarettes that seeped through the walls. They were silent while he fumbled for his keys. They were silent when he dropped his keys. Under his breath, he apologized for the mess; she dismissed it as nothing close to how bad hers was.

He watched her shimmy out of a light blue tube top with a bulimic hunger in his eyes. Her look was confident while begging for approval. He slid up against her hips, caressing the underside of her breast while nibbling on her left earlobe. Lowering her down onto the navy sheets, he whispered into her ear to be patient—good things come to those who wait. He left her with a kiss so soft it surprised them both.

Staring into his bathroom mirror, hating the buzzing fluorescent lights that flanked his reflection, he choked down three generic extra strength ibuprofen with a swallow of what used to be his father's favorite whiskey, tossing the empty glass over his shoulder without a second thought. It hit the curved corner of the blue bathtub, shattering with an odd softness as the slide around the bend cushioned its destruction. He pressed the palm of each of his hands into one eye socket, his back heaving at every halting breath. “Is this it?” he asked the shards of glass that lay scattered throughout the bathtub, still tinted caramel with whiskey atop the baby blue porcelain.