short story
force of an avalanche llama farm
i feed seagulls
our feet feel smashed
fantasy art






life here is just one big easy street. I remember the time at the llama farm and it was then, then especially I felt no one cared about me. then that Russ called me "a little trooper", then that I hugged flea-ridden kitty Sophia to me, clasped her to my chest as I lay on my bed, under heaps of blankets, my toes wet and frozen, my cheeks burning, my head on fire, my body chilled.

it was then that I called up Kyle to pick me up so I could sleep in warmth and eat, it was then that I asked him to come over to drive me over there, because I had no more strength left, because I hadn't eaten, because I couldn't walk any more, couldn't wak the hour it would take to campus, and from there, wait for the bus to take me to Kyle's.

I lived in darkness, Kyle in light.

when I come to Kyle's house, we walk out to rent a video. everywhere, there are lights, everywhere, action, everywhere people are moving, singing, dancing their lives. Burrito Heaven is open, serving the best, the cheapest mexican food in town. the gas station is open, the cars run through and run over its little bell. the pizza place is open, so is the vietnamese restaurant. everywhere but everywhere is open, except the mile or so down the road where I live, where I am alone and mute to my world, where my needs have ceased to exist, because I am no longer a person, I am a drone tethered to my responsibilities, tethered to my care of the farm. nobody told me it would get as hard as this, nobody told me it would be harder - be worse - than living outdoors because I could not build a fire, because I could not care for myself!

these days, I never eat. there is no time to eat, no food to eat, nowhere to eat. I work and work around the farm, slowly, shaking, and around 3, right before sunset, I call a pizza guy, who may or may not come, for they may or may not find the place that's totally stashed away. many times, the neighbors, in all their twangs and toothless grins (country bumpkin weirdos is what i'm getting at) have called the cops on the pizza delivery boys, the poor things pulling in to our driveway, pulling out, pulling into another, pulling out. as if a thief would be so obvious....

sometimes Raphael appears at the farm. he too, is in and out. when he is in, he is angry and tells me I should leave. he thinks I should let the animals starve and die - they are not my animals and not my responsibility. I feel too sorry for them. I could never abandon them. they are not the cause of this exhausting storm. they are not to be faulted for their owners' carelessness, their owners' whims and impracticality. they are innocent, needing, starving for care and attention. in their eyes, I never do enough, because there are so many and their owners are too busy for them.

I forgo a christmas with my family to live at this farm.


© 1990 - 2003 Katharina Woodworth

fantasy art