Simon Jimenez

A New Year By Simon Jimenez The sand was still dry, and warm. May gathered the feet of her sundress up to her thighs and glided toward the sinking water. June had undone her red bikini, allowing her breasts to roast under the sun. June?s twin, July, mimicked her, but being more sensitive to the heat, stripped off her underwear as well. August was walking back to the car, rubbing grains of sand from his coarse hair, muttering that the sun was about to set. September through December were already in the car, blasting the AC until their skin prickled into a thousand goose eyes. September gazed out at the beach with longing, knowing if he were to step out into the sun, he would sunburn too easily. October played little games on his cell phone to pass the time. November propped a dusty old tome on his lap, his mind lost in a land of fantasy. In the back of the car, where it was coldest, December was fast asleep. Back home, January sat on the porch, sipping a mug of amber whiskey as her eldest daughters February, March, and April, tended to the garden. Being the more talented of the three, April directed her two sisters as she watered the lilacs. ?Gentle hands,? she would say, ?Flowers need you to be warm.? But no matter what she said, Feb and March were lost causes, and had to be happy with simply watching April work. By now, the sun was beginning to fall. January leaned back in her rocking chair with a contented smile, as she knew that at this very moment, whether they were at the beach or at home with her, her children were okay. The finely aged woman set down her mug of whiskey and closed her eyes to the sound of girls? laughter. Her breathing slowed, and didn?t stop slowing. She died as the embodiment of Tomorrow ought to die. With grace. Not a moment after January?s heart gave its last beat did old man Time stop walking the halls of his garden maze. A thick wall of shrubbery blocked the way ahead. Time put his hands in his pockets, and did what he did best; he sat down and waited, and when Time waits, the world waits with him. All the people in the cities and fields stopped moving, as well as both gods old and new. Life was quiet as the Months of the year held a funeral for their mother. It was a somber affair. February, now the oldest Month, led the funeral march across the blazing sands of the Sahara and through the brick canals New York City, to the White Land of Souls, and into the pocket universes that exist only in the mind?s eye. The march lasted for days, and not for one moment did the Months rest. Not until they arrived at the edge of the world. The edge of the world is a dark lake from which everything springs, and to which everyone, at one point or another, must return. A boat waits at a lonely pier to take the dead back to the lake?s black embrace. August, the strongest of the eleven, carried January to this boat and laid her down as April wreathed her hair with lilacs. Each child kissed their mother goodbye in turn. No one said a word except for November, who read from an old scroll the words that needed to be said. The boat, unmoored, drifted off into the dark, and January was gone. Now was the time of the Wake. The Months returned home. As they marched back through the world?s eye and the souls of the living, they stretched out their arms and caught stray memories of the old January, memories of change, of regret, and of hope. Like a rolling ball of snow, the memories accumulated, interacting with each other, forming connections and knotted loops. The children continued to march, and I slowly began to take shape. A face, an arm, legs, ears, another arm, a heart, eyes. When they arrived at the porch, where a half-full mug of amber whiskey still sat, I was a baby cradled in December?s arms. I suckled on his thumb as they congregated. ?She?s so small,? December whispered tiredly, surprised he was able to stay awake this long. He frowned. ?Do you think she?ll be like Mom?? ?A little bit,? May said, being familiar with gradual transitions. ?But not quite.? ?She has her eyes,? June observed. July agreed, but added, ?Such pretty eyes.? ?Her disposition is different,? August grunted. May rolled her eyes. ?Babies don?t have dispositions. They poop and cry.? ?Fine,? August relented, ?but something about her is different.? ?As it should be,? February said. There was an old look in her eyes. ?She?s the memory of the new year.? December was startled when I began to cry. ?What do I do? What do I do?? he asked helplessly, to which April laughed and brought me to her arms. ?Treat her like a flower,? she said, humming softly. ?Gentle hands.? I settled down, and closed my eyes against her bright warmth. My mothers and fathers gathered around me. They smiled, and I was welcomed home as an old memory ought to be welcomed. With love.

Let It Go By Simon Jimenez He gave me specific instructions: go around the side of the house, past the three singing garden gnomes, down the grassy slope, and knock on the back door three times. I didn't ask him why the precaution. The tag on his email address told me his name was Sam. I whispered the name to myself as I walked through the shadows of the house. Sam, Sam, Sam. The feel and texture of his name kept me anchored to reality. This wasn?t some nebulous creation of the internet, this was a real person, a person like me, who wanted what I wanted. Sam?s apartment was the basement of a larger house. I knocked three times on the back door. Two minutes later, the patio light turned on, and Sam opened the door. He was a good five inches taller than me. His eyes reflected the patio light in sequin smiles as he welcomed me inside, his hand on my back, leading me to the living room. We sat on his coffee-stained couch, facing a small television set propped up on a pile of college textbooks. The Olympic Games were on, a young Chinese girl singing to a crowd of millions. She must be nervous. "Can you turn the TV off?" I mumbled. Sam put the television on mute. "I wanted to watch the games," he explained. Footsteps wandered along the ceiling, faint conversation echoing through and out the walls. Sam slid closer to me, his arm draped along the spine of the couch. "Are you nervous?" he asked. His breath stung my nostrils with an unholy mix of garlic and peppermint. His slick lips smashed against mine, biting, chewing, licking my face. This was my first kiss. Not knowing what to do, I let him eat me alive. A hand went in my shirt lifting it above my head. Another played with the zipper of my jeans. The hand slipped inside and hugged my crotch, coaxing it harder, all while Sam whispered in my ear ?Do you like that?? He didn?t stop asking me until I nodded. His head traveled south until I could see the back of his neck. He had a small black tattoo of a clenched fist. The wet of his mouth engulfed me. I let out a stifled moan. The Chinese girl sang, in silence, her arms outstretched as if trying to hug the world. As Sam's stubble scratched against my thighs, my hands spread out and over the rough surface of the couch, searching for something to anchor me down, but I was already gone, lost in a song with no words.

Hey, I'm simon jimenez, and currently have an ongoing serial here at awesomedude. It goes by the title 'Don't Let Me Down'. Since my schedule seems to keep piling up, I found it might be useful to have someone look over all my new submissions for grammar/continuity/logic errors as I seem to take forever and a half doing so. All I require is that you are easy to work with, and will not take it personally if I do not take suggestions I don't agree with, or if I tickle you profusely. looking forward to meeting you, soulmate.

Thanks very much for your kind words, Lugnutz and WBMS! I love that people have taken a liking to my story. I hope that the rest of the chapters are just as pleasing to you.