Brian Webster

Unblinking

I take the evening walk home over snow-dusted yards and sidewalks as the cars are turning on their lights. The wind throws my white breath behind me, but I don't mind. I suck in the cold till it burns in my lungs, and keep watching my shoes as my cheeks go numb. I haven't slept in 28 hours, I haven't dreamed in 22 months, and I haven't eaten since Wednesday, unless tomato soup counts. The public library stays open till nine. Somehow, I take comfort in that as I'm trudging past it tonight.

The Quiet Visitor

Isn't this the chair you sat in every time I came to visit? I see it here now, pushed back from the table and turned to one side. What were you thinking the last time you left it this way? Where did you go? And this. Is this the glass you sipped from on those long afternoons you spent trying to sustain us? It's nice, this glass. Warm to my touch. But when was the last time you held it in your hand? The room's as cluttered as I remember it, but somebody is missing. I should straighten one of

Salt

The gaunt man wearing the sunglasses picked up the shaker of salt at his table, held it over his green beans, hesitated, and put it down again, shaking his head. Across the dining area of the restaurant, an aristocratic woman in a green dress watched him from behind her upraised glass of tea. She thought: Well, is he going to use the salt of not? The man poked a forkful of green beans into his mouth and chewed vigorously, then reached for his salt shaker again. His fingers wavered just short o

ScribbleFace

Every picture tells a story. This one tells the story of ScribbleFace, the man who would be replaced. Once he had eyes that saw, a nose that sniffed and a mouth that spoke too soon. But not anymore. One morning while the birds sat high in the trees outside their house, while the mister stayed awake in his office downtown and Dr. Phil lectured overweight alcoholics in the living room, the misses slipped the photo out of its frame, scanned it, and applied the black magic of Photoshop to her m

I Married the Winter Sky

At last, autumn has turned back into spring. I don't know where the days went. I only remember the nights, a long blur of harsh lights, moving shadows and terrible, terrible longing. One morning I lost my place and for just a few seconds, I felt the black silk of your hair whispering through my fingers. I tried to tighten my grip and hold it, but then I opened my eyes and saw that nothing had changed at all. In bed I twist and turn from no particular discomfort but you. So I sit up, then fall

The Voice Before the Static // Vol. 711

Well, folks. We've come to the end of another broadcast day. I would like to thank you all for listening to tonight's radio program, and for clapping extra loud during the puppet show. You've no idea how much our fuzzy friends with their button eyes appreciate that. (That's right, Bonkers! I'm talking about you!) Mr. Floppy Socks would like to send a warm "happy birthday" out to Ruth Wilcher, the first grade teacher who spanked me for not doing my math homework. Hope you're nice and snug i

Voice In the Box

When she sang, happy melodies hid the pain. Once she died, the song never sounded the same. And nobody is saying why. So play that last song back to me, Turn it up to infinity, But the voice in the box, The lovely voice in the box, Will never get out. So she bled, to spill the poison out of her head, And she drank, to drown the words before they got said. On thunderclouds in the sky. So scan the lyrics again and again, Spin them backward for signs of her end. Nobody knew what she wa

One More Awkward Pause

I'm not looking for my first opening, but the best one, you see? The magic movie moment! I watch her eyes when she smiles, I catch that twinkle there, I almost lean in. She smiles, fidgets her fingers. I stammer, smile and blush. She changes the subject, and soon we're relaxing again. My heart is a drum. My mind, a race car barely staying on the track. One more awkward pause. Just once more. The slightest hint or opening. It's all I need. I watch her mouth. I nearly tremble as she brushes her

Vandy

To imagine us together in a movie, Me as a rebel and you as my lover; Bigger than life and in technicolor. In the final scene, cross your lap I will die, Yearning for but one kiss. It can never be like this. A look on your face can change my mind About the handsome wrecks you left behind; A trail of broken hearts all the way to Dixie. A man on your mind is a man at your mercy. Here I am on my knees at the Altar of You Still asking for that kiss. Why do you treat me like this? If I c

Artificial Assurances

Once I spoke such a beautiful language that I crafted from my own yearning, born at first glance of you. My desire for you, it sang to me, and through me, it sang to you. And it caught you. It stopped your world from turning in the same direction. You lifted your eyes and listened to these clumsy poems of longing, beginning with hello. And then you showed your words to me, lined them up in your own symmetry and marched them in a perfect circle, to surround me. And we sang like this, and danc

The Bedsheet Sprawl

I wanted to grow old with you. And look at us now – not quite old, love, But getting there. My thinning hair and your three-mile stare Past the TV set to nowhere. I’d join you there if you’d let me, In that place you go to forget me, But I know it’s the secrets you keep, That keep you here with me. With my arms, my promises, And an acre of cheap wood paneling, To keep you warm at night. Get chilly anyway, and your heart would stray Whether your body ever did. Who am I now when you

The Mad Poet

He ripped up his eighth attempt at greatness, Kicked a dent into the side of his desk And rose from his chair “Nothing,” he said as he crossed The room and smashed her head with the lamp. Mittens slinked in to see what was the matter. The poet stomped on her spine and spat on her Until he began to feel better. The flatscreen shattered to the carpet. The poet plucked the clock from its Place on the wall and Nolan Ryaned it through The window. He writhed out of his clothes And did the

The Voice Before the Static // Volume 918

Well, folks. I've had so much fun tonight that I've lost track of the time. But I see Mr. Floppy Socks yawning over there, so that can only mean – yes, I'm sorry but it's true – the end of another broadcast day. That means all the puppets go back into the bottom drawer to dream their cottony dreams. Ahhhhhhh . . . how cozy. As always, I want to thank everybody for listening to tonight's program. And I remind those of you out there who love our show: listening is not enough. Please, please, plea

When the Banished Return

How will you greet them? Who's gonna stand in their way? This is the price of justice, The fine print you didn't see, To the lock on your golden door. Who is gonna stand at the wall? The leper will steal your bed. The whore will capture your man. The murderer will be your governor. Where will you put your faith then? Add up your prayers to meaningless Her hot breath in your face, Where can you turn when she's turning you on? And your choice is jump or melt, You'll know the angel wh

Tin Man's Lament

I sold my heart to the junkman. Lately, I’ve been trying to buy it back, but I can’t scrape up enough currency. I go down to the junk yard late at night. I empty my pockets for the man, but he always shakes his head and sends me away. They say to buy low and sell high. I sold my heart at well below market price. A stupid thing to do, I know, but I wanted to be rid of it then. I thought it brought me bad luck, and that it encouraged me to take crazy chances with my life. Worst of all, it made m

Tired of Losing

And her words still skittered across his mind like little black bugs as he walked quickly up the crooked boulevard, past old brick buildings, past cracked windows and empty doorways. "Well," said he, to the reckless wind in his face, "what might be a mind game to you could be a natural reaction on my part to one of your many, many idiosyncracies. Ever think of that?" Yeah. That's what he should have said to her. But did he? No. "Just because you don't tolerate mind games, well,

Open All Night

No matter what the time is. I like a good, hard slumber as much as anyone, okay? But there's no law in my country, or in any place I know of, that requires everyone to be in bed by 11 p.m. People who don't know me well – or who don't know better – used to buzz me every night on Yahoo or AOL Messenger and it typically would typically go like this: me: "Can I help you?" PERSON: "What time is it where u r?" PERSON: "why u dont sleep? I think u shud be sleeping now." me: "I

Ashes

When I died, those who knew me best gathered and remembered me. Intimately. Sometimes they chuckled. Often they whispered. They told stories I'd have never recalled, from viewpoints I could never have known. They spoke of me in such detail, and so carefully, I almost felt alive again. Each one in his way or her way knew me well and would miss me. If my skin and hair could have felt the flames of the oven that erased my bones, their love would have made it bearable. My dear, none of them knew

The Voice Before the Static/Closure Eyes

.... and THAT, kids, that is why you should always drink your lemonade cold! Hahahaha ... Nothing tastes worse than warm lemonade on a sticky hot day! Once I met a really cool dude. He said to me, “Always use ice cubes.” So remember: Always use ice cubes. Do you know what else is refreshing? A good night’s sleep, that’s what. Think of all the wonderful things that happen when children dream at night: A magic wind comes down from the moon and blows gently over all the grass and trees
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