The page lay open and plain-white like pressed t-shirts hanging on the line when his mother used to wash his clothes as a boy. Except that was thrilling, running through the sheets, the laundry, the wind. Innocence was always on his lips and turmoil at his back, the way he shaped the tall grass with his feet as he ran past.
But those days, those engorged and fattened memories, were gone.
Many of them never even existed; they were only figments of his imagination, taken out of context or expanded like a hot-air balloon from a line in a book, twisted like ribbon to fit the path he wished his life had taken. In hindsight, he always remembered his house as being small - like a cottage - with shutters and laundry hanging outside on the line. The stark, harsh reality was that he lived in a rundown, one-room shack with single-pane windows that leaked when it rained and, if his mother ever did the laundry, the shirts and things hung inside so that they wouldn't catch the scent of burning trash.
So he found himself in front of a white, blank page again. Except now, it was white like the lies he told himself so that he could sleep more easily, dream like men should, finding ways to comfort himself with little, twisted ribbons.
Except now, like always, those lies paid the rent and he was running shy on gasoline to go from the Painful truth to the Pleasurable little ribbon. So he began to type and, instead of lying, he found the truth a cold, sharp blade against his wrists that welcomed him home with open arms.
12.20.2010
Skin Tapestry
The blind woman had hands rough and stone-hewn. They worked the loom, keeping it free of tangles and knots, her feet pressing the pedal in her own, natural rhythm. Her hands were calloused and bloodstained, but deft. Her face was perpetually turned to the paneless window, neither smile or grimace meeting the horizon. Day in and day out, she loomed, never pausing to eat or sleep, or rest.
As far back as Andrew could remember she was there, quietly looming away his own flesh. His skin peeled away from his musculature, always to her loom. The boy's memory did not go back so far that he could remember the details of his kidnapping, or even to a time that he could recall ever wearing clothes. He had always been in pain, naked and in the company of the Blind Loomer.
The tower had a single table, with a solitary lamp along its wall. The blind woman sat at the window while the tapestry continued its own construction behind her. Every year, it seemed the ceiling of the room stretched a little higher in order to accomodate the size of the giant mural. Andrew could make out no details of construction except, by some hidden magic, the tapestry needed no worker to continue; by a mind of its own, it threaded the ever-growing fabric into its own wall of substance.
Andrew's bed consisted of a blood-stained sheet, an old shoe that he used as a pillow, and a horse-blanket. Once a day, a slit at the foot of the door would reveal an outer wall; there, a hand would push in a jar of water and a green, earth-smelling pill. In the beginning - or what Andrew recalled as the beginning - he tried to communicate his emotion to the hand. He yelled at it, spit upon it, and once, without thinking, he stomped his entire weight upon it. Then, and only then, did the owner of the hand make any noise and with a terrible roar came these words from behind the door:
"You will pay for that, Skin-Reaper! Mark my words, you will pay!" Boots could be heard tramping down the stairs, echoing off the stone and mortar walls, echoing long after the man was out of the tower and across the muck-ridden water of the moat.
For the next three days, the slit at the foot of the wall did not open and, to Andrew's amazement, the skin that was being ripped from his body did not regrow as quickly as before. The pain began to nab at his mind. He found that he dared not walk around, lest a vibration sing up his spine and shake his insides. At noon of the second day, he noticed that he could push two fingers between his muscles and into his abdomonal cavity. By the dawn of the third day, he could plainly feel the bone of 4 ribs, make out the muscles and sinew of his side and, should he push hard enough, feel the expansion and compression of his lungs.
The pain was unbearable. He had no tears to cry, only blood to bleed. A sloppy, sticky puddle began to accumulate beneath him, eventually soaking the entire floor of the tower. When he got up to move, more skin would come loose, prying itself free of him, crackling and creaking like old paint.
During this time, the blind woman continued looming. Andrew's skin, the stuff that had caused a war only 2 decades before, continued from the boy's body to the loom in a never-ending thread. Where it pulled away from his frame, the blood would gleam bright red. As his skin entered the loom, the blind woman would turn it into thread and, as it worked its way out of the looming wheel, it fell into an ever-shrinking coil. It traveled next from coil to tapestry, each line of flesh finding its place in the grand mural.
By the time the slit opened at the foot of the door, Andrew could barely breathe. He ran a high fever; sweat beaded his brow and the skin being torn away from his back could now be heard inside his ears. His heart, finding trouble keeping up with the amount of blood loss, was resounding throughout his body, each beat pushing more blood onto the stone floor where it grew dry, sticky and iron-smelling.
For only the second time in his life, Andrew saw the door of his prison open. Through blurry eyes, he caught the soles of four black, polished boots stomping toward him. One man retched at the scent while the other kicked Andrew in his exposed ribs.
"I told you that you would pay for that one," the punting officer said.
"Indeed," Andrew said through grit teeth.
Turning him over, the officers forced the earthen pill in his mouth and down his throat. Next, they dumped a pail of water onto the floor, little good it did.
"Tomorrow," the retching officer said, "we'll get some hay up here to soak up the blood. In no time at all, you'll be good as new." Andrew fell into a dreamless sleep as the officers turned on their heels, leaving the way they came. The lonely tower door clanged behind them. The last thing Andrew heard were the keys turning the tumblers in the lock.
The next day, he awoke to the grunting of the retching officer clamoring up the stairs. Turning his key in the lock, the officer pushed open the door just long enough to toss in a bail of hay and wipe his brow.
"You can feel free to soak up that blood, boy," he said and clanged the door shut. Andrew, for all the pain he had endured over the last three days, was now good as new - or as good as he could be - the skin coming off his frame easily and without pain.
Over the course of the next year, Andrew came to a few stark realizations. First, he would never escape and, whatever end the tapestry was being created for, it would surely result in his death. Secondly, the only help he could ever hope for could only come from himself - the Blind Loomer, as much as he thought of her as a fellow prisoner -- could just as easily be a table lamp or another stone in the wall for all the notice she took of him.
That afternoon, while the Blind Loomer continued to turn his flesh into skin, the boy rushed against the loom, hoping to deal a crushing blow to the wheel and, by his own strength, destroy his destroyer. As hard and repeatedly as he tried to turn the device to cinders, it continued to turn and spin, threading his very body into cordage. Furiously, he paced the floor, his heels sticking to the long-dried blood. He could come up with no solution save one.
In his mind, he settled the matter once and for all.
The next day , the slit at the foot of the door slid open and both water and earthen-pill made their way onto his floor. Andrew bit into the pill, only consuming half of it but drinking all of the water. The rest of the day, his skin tore a little easier, a little more painfully, but still he continued on.
He did this for the next fortnight so that, by the 15th day, Andrew had amassed eight whole pills. Carefully now, he took each one, naming them all the names of the friends he wished he would have had as a child. After the seventh whole pill, he felt like he could tackle the world. His skin sizzled and cracked; his head felt two times too large; his heart pounded in his ears, not like when it could not keep up with his blood loss, but this time in exhilaration. He took the eighth pill and named it Andrew, just like him.
Then, breathing heavily in anticipation, he took up the remaining cordage in his hand, went to the windowsill, and jumped. As he raced to the ground below, he whooped and hollered, flying and feeling free. The descent was longer than he anticipated as he quickly ran out of roped skin and his own flesh unraveled against his musculature. Ever faster, the skin ripped from his legs, now his back and abdomen, now his arms, never slowing his fall. As his grotesque frame slammed into the earth below, Andrew realized that he was now but a flying, breathing skeleton.
And then he was no more.
As far back as Andrew could remember she was there, quietly looming away his own flesh. His skin peeled away from his musculature, always to her loom. The boy's memory did not go back so far that he could remember the details of his kidnapping, or even to a time that he could recall ever wearing clothes. He had always been in pain, naked and in the company of the Blind Loomer.
The tower had a single table, with a solitary lamp along its wall. The blind woman sat at the window while the tapestry continued its own construction behind her. Every year, it seemed the ceiling of the room stretched a little higher in order to accomodate the size of the giant mural. Andrew could make out no details of construction except, by some hidden magic, the tapestry needed no worker to continue; by a mind of its own, it threaded the ever-growing fabric into its own wall of substance.
Andrew's bed consisted of a blood-stained sheet, an old shoe that he used as a pillow, and a horse-blanket. Once a day, a slit at the foot of the door would reveal an outer wall; there, a hand would push in a jar of water and a green, earth-smelling pill. In the beginning - or what Andrew recalled as the beginning - he tried to communicate his emotion to the hand. He yelled at it, spit upon it, and once, without thinking, he stomped his entire weight upon it. Then, and only then, did the owner of the hand make any noise and with a terrible roar came these words from behind the door:
"You will pay for that, Skin-Reaper! Mark my words, you will pay!" Boots could be heard tramping down the stairs, echoing off the stone and mortar walls, echoing long after the man was out of the tower and across the muck-ridden water of the moat.
For the next three days, the slit at the foot of the wall did not open and, to Andrew's amazement, the skin that was being ripped from his body did not regrow as quickly as before. The pain began to nab at his mind. He found that he dared not walk around, lest a vibration sing up his spine and shake his insides. At noon of the second day, he noticed that he could push two fingers between his muscles and into his abdomonal cavity. By the dawn of the third day, he could plainly feel the bone of 4 ribs, make out the muscles and sinew of his side and, should he push hard enough, feel the expansion and compression of his lungs.
The pain was unbearable. He had no tears to cry, only blood to bleed. A sloppy, sticky puddle began to accumulate beneath him, eventually soaking the entire floor of the tower. When he got up to move, more skin would come loose, prying itself free of him, crackling and creaking like old paint.
During this time, the blind woman continued looming. Andrew's skin, the stuff that had caused a war only 2 decades before, continued from the boy's body to the loom in a never-ending thread. Where it pulled away from his frame, the blood would gleam bright red. As his skin entered the loom, the blind woman would turn it into thread and, as it worked its way out of the looming wheel, it fell into an ever-shrinking coil. It traveled next from coil to tapestry, each line of flesh finding its place in the grand mural.
By the time the slit opened at the foot of the door, Andrew could barely breathe. He ran a high fever; sweat beaded his brow and the skin being torn away from his back could now be heard inside his ears. His heart, finding trouble keeping up with the amount of blood loss, was resounding throughout his body, each beat pushing more blood onto the stone floor where it grew dry, sticky and iron-smelling.
For only the second time in his life, Andrew saw the door of his prison open. Through blurry eyes, he caught the soles of four black, polished boots stomping toward him. One man retched at the scent while the other kicked Andrew in his exposed ribs.
"I told you that you would pay for that one," the punting officer said.
"Indeed," Andrew said through grit teeth.
Turning him over, the officers forced the earthen pill in his mouth and down his throat. Next, they dumped a pail of water onto the floor, little good it did.
"Tomorrow," the retching officer said, "we'll get some hay up here to soak up the blood. In no time at all, you'll be good as new." Andrew fell into a dreamless sleep as the officers turned on their heels, leaving the way they came. The lonely tower door clanged behind them. The last thing Andrew heard were the keys turning the tumblers in the lock.
The next day, he awoke to the grunting of the retching officer clamoring up the stairs. Turning his key in the lock, the officer pushed open the door just long enough to toss in a bail of hay and wipe his brow.
"You can feel free to soak up that blood, boy," he said and clanged the door shut. Andrew, for all the pain he had endured over the last three days, was now good as new - or as good as he could be - the skin coming off his frame easily and without pain.
Over the course of the next year, Andrew came to a few stark realizations. First, he would never escape and, whatever end the tapestry was being created for, it would surely result in his death. Secondly, the only help he could ever hope for could only come from himself - the Blind Loomer, as much as he thought of her as a fellow prisoner -- could just as easily be a table lamp or another stone in the wall for all the notice she took of him.
That afternoon, while the Blind Loomer continued to turn his flesh into skin, the boy rushed against the loom, hoping to deal a crushing blow to the wheel and, by his own strength, destroy his destroyer. As hard and repeatedly as he tried to turn the device to cinders, it continued to turn and spin, threading his very body into cordage. Furiously, he paced the floor, his heels sticking to the long-dried blood. He could come up with no solution save one.
In his mind, he settled the matter once and for all.
The next day , the slit at the foot of the door slid open and both water and earthen-pill made their way onto his floor. Andrew bit into the pill, only consuming half of it but drinking all of the water. The rest of the day, his skin tore a little easier, a little more painfully, but still he continued on.
He did this for the next fortnight so that, by the 15th day, Andrew had amassed eight whole pills. Carefully now, he took each one, naming them all the names of the friends he wished he would have had as a child. After the seventh whole pill, he felt like he could tackle the world. His skin sizzled and cracked; his head felt two times too large; his heart pounded in his ears, not like when it could not keep up with his blood loss, but this time in exhilaration. He took the eighth pill and named it Andrew, just like him.
Then, breathing heavily in anticipation, he took up the remaining cordage in his hand, went to the windowsill, and jumped. As he raced to the ground below, he whooped and hollered, flying and feeling free. The descent was longer than he anticipated as he quickly ran out of roped skin and his own flesh unraveled against his musculature. Ever faster, the skin ripped from his legs, now his back and abdomen, now his arms, never slowing his fall. As his grotesque frame slammed into the earth below, Andrew realized that he was now but a flying, breathing skeleton.
And then he was no more.
9.28.2010
damascus
Lord General Lee Osaka Damascus was ruthless. Hated by his contemporaries, he got all of the credit for ending the first war against the Canids and kept his nose well above the stench of other Lord Generals. He was also the only reason his race didn't suffer the same fate as the original inhabitants of Agri1. At the start of that conflict, the humans were on the brink of total extinction; the enemy were infiltrating the No Orbit Zone, had outmaneuvered humanity's best pilots and were reaching deeper into the Milky Way. But, like a savior, Damascus had shown up and thrown caution - and traditional tactics with it - to the wind. After 5 generations of peace, this man led humanity into war.
Early on, he captured a full squadron of beasties. He gleaned valuable information from them, breaking their minds in the process. They became known as Damascus's Dogs -- used against their own race, they were forced to fight for the Lord General's cause. Anti-propaganda, fear tactics, promises of power: they were all tools utilized to keep the DD in working order. However, Damascus had a secret weapon: when asked how he did it by the Planetary Magistrate, he noted, "Seize chips go a long way." The defense sector was stunned. More powerful than shock collars, the seizure-inducing chip could be implanted under the skin, unnoticed, and controlled remotely. It was rogue technology, black listed, illegal. Knowledge of the DD was kept to a bare minimal - the public remained in the dark. So, when Damascus killed his own men to make the Dogs look like they were working for their original cause, the public - as well as the enemy - were none the wiser. According to a report published by The Canid Ministry of Defense before they were absolved of power, "The 515th squadron has gone above and beyond all previous hopes. As a team, they are without equal. Each man utilizes the most extreme force and, without fail, comes back with more human deaths than we could have hoped. They are the terrors of human children. These men are the things of nightmares, with no eyes except for the war. Single-handedly, they are winning this conflict."
Within the next 6 months, the 515th squadron were being awarded medals for incalcuable valor. They dressed in their best, went to meet their Supreme Emporer and, as the Ace shook his hand, they murdered him in cold blood.
Damascus had kept his fleet out of reach, just beyond the largest moon. In the ensuing chaos, he moved in, took over the planet, and forced everyone into Packing Ships. He sent them -- all of them: men, women and children -- to the sun. Every living member of the race that humans came to know as the beasties died at the hand of Lord General Damascus.
Now, 30 years later, he stood at the bridge of "Light Destroyer," surveying the carnage as it played out on 12 holo screens before him; surveying his empire. 35 years of war had hardened his character; the terrors of deep space tempered his resolve. He looked on with a smile on his face. It was good to be king.
Of course, that wasn't his official title. He still answered to the Conglomerate of Corporations and Congress, but, without him, they would have all died a long time ago. Even as things currently stood, he might still kill them and take over. Chuckling to himself at the thought, he gripped the railing of the bridge until the tightened skin over his knuckles turned white. One day. One day.
----
In the middle of a corn field, there are no shadows. The boy crouched low, stalking his prey. He had been out here for over an hour, bent over low, countless scratches criss-crossing his arms and face. Sweat trickled down his brow and he let it slide down the slope of his nose, accumulate, and then drop to the floor below. In his left hand, he held a blade as long as his hand, its hilt weighted and wrapped so as to cut down on blisters. Only 11, he had it as long as he could remember. Somehow, over the course of his stay on Terra 1, he'd managed to keep the pigsticker a secret. If he were caught with it, he would lose layers of skin and be forced to work well past dark.
To his right, he heard his prey break cover and begin moving again. Centering himself and keeping his breath stable, the boy kept low and walked in the larger prints left before him, careful not to alert the ringbeast. He began gaining ground, occassionally sniffing the air for track or stopping to listen. The ringbeasts were intelligent, but the boy always found a way to keep his scent hidden, eventually ending upwind of them, circling them in, ending in a war of attrition.
He knew that part was coming soon - the war - and he reveled in it. These horned pig-like beasts - they had been the bane of his young existence, thrashing about in the corn fields, killing children, shrinking profit. And if there was any one thing his magisterate could not tolerate, it was a shrinking profit. He could always find more Warphans, the way the Lord Generals commanded the armies these days. Careful not to let his thoughts get the best of him, the boy continued circling, tighter and tigher, until he was nearly on top of the ringbeast. He caught sight of it then and became only slightly alarmed; it was larger than the rest of the beasts he had previously killed and its 6 horns were all blood bolted, dark and shining.
Slinging the blade overhead, he let it fly, end over end, slicing through the air until it found its mark. The boy's aim was true - the blade embedded itself deep into the gut of the beast and it howled and thrashed. Jumping out of the way and onto the back of the ringbeast, the boy took hold of the ringbeasts' horns like handlebars and, pulling his blade from its gorey side, he continued the assault, repeatedly stabbing it until the blood flowed and the beast fell snout forward, sliding on its front legs.
Early on, he captured a full squadron of beasties. He gleaned valuable information from them, breaking their minds in the process. They became known as Damascus's Dogs -- used against their own race, they were forced to fight for the Lord General's cause. Anti-propaganda, fear tactics, promises of power: they were all tools utilized to keep the DD in working order. However, Damascus had a secret weapon: when asked how he did it by the Planetary Magistrate, he noted, "Seize chips go a long way." The defense sector was stunned. More powerful than shock collars, the seizure-inducing chip could be implanted under the skin, unnoticed, and controlled remotely. It was rogue technology, black listed, illegal. Knowledge of the DD was kept to a bare minimal - the public remained in the dark. So, when Damascus killed his own men to make the Dogs look like they were working for their original cause, the public - as well as the enemy - were none the wiser. According to a report published by The Canid Ministry of Defense before they were absolved of power, "The 515th squadron has gone above and beyond all previous hopes. As a team, they are without equal. Each man utilizes the most extreme force and, without fail, comes back with more human deaths than we could have hoped. They are the terrors of human children. These men are the things of nightmares, with no eyes except for the war. Single-handedly, they are winning this conflict."
Within the next 6 months, the 515th squadron were being awarded medals for incalcuable valor. They dressed in their best, went to meet their Supreme Emporer and, as the Ace shook his hand, they murdered him in cold blood.
Damascus had kept his fleet out of reach, just beyond the largest moon. In the ensuing chaos, he moved in, took over the planet, and forced everyone into Packing Ships. He sent them -- all of them: men, women and children -- to the sun. Every living member of the race that humans came to know as the beasties died at the hand of Lord General Damascus.
Now, 30 years later, he stood at the bridge of "Light Destroyer," surveying the carnage as it played out on 12 holo screens before him; surveying his empire. 35 years of war had hardened his character; the terrors of deep space tempered his resolve. He looked on with a smile on his face. It was good to be king.
Of course, that wasn't his official title. He still answered to the Conglomerate of Corporations and Congress, but, without him, they would have all died a long time ago. Even as things currently stood, he might still kill them and take over. Chuckling to himself at the thought, he gripped the railing of the bridge until the tightened skin over his knuckles turned white. One day. One day.
----
In the middle of a corn field, there are no shadows. The boy crouched low, stalking his prey. He had been out here for over an hour, bent over low, countless scratches criss-crossing his arms and face. Sweat trickled down his brow and he let it slide down the slope of his nose, accumulate, and then drop to the floor below. In his left hand, he held a blade as long as his hand, its hilt weighted and wrapped so as to cut down on blisters. Only 11, he had it as long as he could remember. Somehow, over the course of his stay on Terra 1, he'd managed to keep the pigsticker a secret. If he were caught with it, he would lose layers of skin and be forced to work well past dark.
To his right, he heard his prey break cover and begin moving again. Centering himself and keeping his breath stable, the boy kept low and walked in the larger prints left before him, careful not to alert the ringbeast. He began gaining ground, occassionally sniffing the air for track or stopping to listen. The ringbeasts were intelligent, but the boy always found a way to keep his scent hidden, eventually ending upwind of them, circling them in, ending in a war of attrition.
He knew that part was coming soon - the war - and he reveled in it. These horned pig-like beasts - they had been the bane of his young existence, thrashing about in the corn fields, killing children, shrinking profit. And if there was any one thing his magisterate could not tolerate, it was a shrinking profit. He could always find more Warphans, the way the Lord Generals commanded the armies these days. Careful not to let his thoughts get the best of him, the boy continued circling, tighter and tigher, until he was nearly on top of the ringbeast. He caught sight of it then and became only slightly alarmed; it was larger than the rest of the beasts he had previously killed and its 6 horns were all blood bolted, dark and shining.
Slinging the blade overhead, he let it fly, end over end, slicing through the air until it found its mark. The boy's aim was true - the blade embedded itself deep into the gut of the beast and it howled and thrashed. Jumping out of the way and onto the back of the ringbeast, the boy took hold of the ringbeasts' horns like handlebars and, pulling his blade from its gorey side, he continued the assault, repeatedly stabbing it until the blood flowed and the beast fell snout forward, sliding on its front legs.
6.11.2010
Making for the Shore
From the shore, the lake looked as large and far-reaching as the Pacific. The sun, past its zenith but no where near setting, cast a line of reflected light across the water that ended at the feet of Tyson. Untying his boots, he shucked them off like old skin, stretched his toes in the hot sand, lifted one and then the other, checking for blisters from the days' work and then, without a backward glance to the old truck, placed them in the cool water, right where the sun came to kiss his frame. He covered his toes, then his ankles. Before long, he was knee deep in the lake. He pulled his shirt over his head, threw it on the shoes and dove headfirst.
He thought his heart would stop, the temperature change was so violent. While the shallow water was cool enough not to gasp, the depths were anything but warm. Tyson came up for air as he swam farther from his life of work and toil and sweat, then dove below the surface again, kicking like a dolphin and clamping his eyes shut against the muck below. He continued to move North and the sunlight's pitter-pattered feet continued to mark his progess, it following him as he swam like a beacon in the darkness.
His arms began to throb, but still he swam. His lungs began to wheeze and whine, but still he moved onward, stroke for stroke, kick for kick. As a child, he competed in events for a club swim team and, as he now headed for the opposite shore, still invisible, the form of a natural-born swimmer returned to him, his muscles remembering to pull his arms tight to his ears, his kicks becoming less violent and more refined. His breathing improved, no longer taking great gasps, but only moving his head over to the side in line with his shoulders, taking small, controlled breaths so that he could keep up the 1 2 3 rhythm of the stroke.
An hour later, the pain in his side was so terrible that he considered quitting. The calm, controlled breathing felt labored; his legs hurt and occassionally, he'd find them dragging behind him until he forced them into propelling him forward, keeping him on course. At one point, he swam over a bed of lakeweed and his legs, tangling in the stuff, pulled him backward. Grunting, Tyson stopped his forward motion, grabbed at his ankles and unhitched himself from the underwater garden. He stopped, breathing heavily, egg-beatering to stay afloat.
He wiped his brow and took slow breaths, opening his eyes to see what lay before him.
The distant shore was no longer distant, but a mammoth of mesas and shoreline stretched out before him. The boy cried, silently, to himself. He continued on, kicking and paddling again, head down.
As the sun sank below the waters, the moon came up to greet him, marking his place in the lake like a pin on a map. It was high overhead when Tyson finally found the shallows and collapsed in a heap on the far shore, now his new home. Gasping and spitting, his fingers and toes long water-wrinkled, he hugged dry land and his chest heaved again and again. Chuckling, he kept his eyes open until they hurt, he ogling the rock-pocked shore of his new home.
He had done it. He swam to Sanctuary.
He thought his heart would stop, the temperature change was so violent. While the shallow water was cool enough not to gasp, the depths were anything but warm. Tyson came up for air as he swam farther from his life of work and toil and sweat, then dove below the surface again, kicking like a dolphin and clamping his eyes shut against the muck below. He continued to move North and the sunlight's pitter-pattered feet continued to mark his progess, it following him as he swam like a beacon in the darkness.
His arms began to throb, but still he swam. His lungs began to wheeze and whine, but still he moved onward, stroke for stroke, kick for kick. As a child, he competed in events for a club swim team and, as he now headed for the opposite shore, still invisible, the form of a natural-born swimmer returned to him, his muscles remembering to pull his arms tight to his ears, his kicks becoming less violent and more refined. His breathing improved, no longer taking great gasps, but only moving his head over to the side in line with his shoulders, taking small, controlled breaths so that he could keep up the 1 2 3 rhythm of the stroke.
An hour later, the pain in his side was so terrible that he considered quitting. The calm, controlled breathing felt labored; his legs hurt and occassionally, he'd find them dragging behind him until he forced them into propelling him forward, keeping him on course. At one point, he swam over a bed of lakeweed and his legs, tangling in the stuff, pulled him backward. Grunting, Tyson stopped his forward motion, grabbed at his ankles and unhitched himself from the underwater garden. He stopped, breathing heavily, egg-beatering to stay afloat.
He wiped his brow and took slow breaths, opening his eyes to see what lay before him.
The distant shore was no longer distant, but a mammoth of mesas and shoreline stretched out before him. The boy cried, silently, to himself. He continued on, kicking and paddling again, head down.
As the sun sank below the waters, the moon came up to greet him, marking his place in the lake like a pin on a map. It was high overhead when Tyson finally found the shallows and collapsed in a heap on the far shore, now his new home. Gasping and spitting, his fingers and toes long water-wrinkled, he hugged dry land and his chest heaved again and again. Chuckling, he kept his eyes open until they hurt, he ogling the rock-pocked shore of his new home.
He had done it. He swam to Sanctuary.
5.25.2010
A late lesson
"This goddamn chair is goddamn uncomfortable."
"What did I tell you about taking the Lord's name in vain, Clinton?" Howard stood over the fire, warming his hands, while his 17 year old son sat on one of the tri-pod chairs they had brought. They were sold cheap and made cheaper, with very little material used for the buttocks and no back at all. They are goddamn uncomfortable, Howard thought. He looked at his boy, measuring him. Strong build and average height, but with a streak of mean in him that would sprout up unexpectedly. He's more like my father than I ever had a right to be, Howard reasoned.
They had gotten into the National Forest well after dark the night before. Howard practically had to drag the young man from the house, turning off the computer while Clinton was playing his favorite video game. The moon was high and full when they finally made camp, but at least they had some light to go by. While Clinton was raised working with his hands, he had never pitched a tent, cut firewood or made a fire. This will be his coming into manhood, Howard believed. This will give us something to talk about. Already though, they were trudging through great marshes of silence, with Clinton only speaking occasionally and only then to complain. Raising the boy, Howard and Clinton never saw eye to eye. Howard thought Clinton a mama's boy; Clinton thought his father an asshole. Finally beginning to put a picture of himself together as his son saw him, Howard looked at the boy again, eyeing the way his hands played over the divets in an oak branch.
"These goddamn seats are goddamn uncomfortable, though," he said aloud. The boy looked up, unsure what to make of his father. Howard gave a slight smile and pressed forward. "You ever wonder what God would say if he were to hit his thumb with a hammer. What if he has the hammer at the ready," Howard grabs a similar branch to Clinton's, bends over and pretends to nail, "and then BAM! He hits himself. You think he'd go 'Medamnit!'?" The older man chuckles and eyes his son.
"You're trying too hard, Pop."
"Ah, I see. Well, just trying to lighten the mood," says the elder. He tosses the wood into the fire and the embers float up with the smoke, dissipating in the the cover of the California black oak. "No harm, no foul, I suppose."
"I suppose not. Hey, can I ask you something,?"
"Of course."
"What makes these divets here, in the wood?" Clinton hands the branch to Howard, who turns it over in his hand, feeling the grooves left behind.
"You ever see the half-eaten leaves after a caterpillar gets done feeding? This is similar to that only, instead of a caterpillar doing the chomping, it's a bark beetle. These pesky things get into a forest and can kill 200 year old trees quicker than you'd think. Where a caterpillar eats until they're ready to cocoon, beetles just eat and eat and eat, destroying whole forests. Their grooves make pretty designs in walking sticks, though." Howard hands the branch back to Clinton, who takes it and looks again at the grooves, this time a little more thoughtfully.
"Thanks," he says.
"Yep." They sit in silence a little longer, both looking at the fire as it smolders.
"How'd you learn all this, anyway?"
Howard chuckles half to himself and says, "Well, I had this idea as a kid that a man should be able to track and hunt and know his way around a forest. I didn't realize that a man really needs to know how to work a job, play well with others and know his way around a city. Anyway, I bought lots of books as a kid and spent a lot of time behind your grandpa's house in the woods. Not to mention, I also watched a lot of National Geographic before it was cool to do so and even spent my summers in college hiking across the U.S. and Canada."
"Wait, what?"
"What what?"
"You spent your summers in college hiking across the U.S. and Canada?!"
"Well, yeah. That's how I managed to meet your mother in Oregon. I'm surprised she never told you."
"Come on, Pop, we're close, but we don't talk like that. That's awesome. So, you have a lot of knowledge of this kind of thing. What got you into hiking and how'd you decide to hike across the U.S.? And why Canada of all places? Why not some South American rainforest?"
"OK OK. Haha. For the second question, that's easy enough. I didn't go to the rainforests for two reasons. First: money. Second: language. I hiked Canada for the same reasons I didn't hike South America. And I don't know what got me into hiking. I think it was a combination of just who I was and the books I read, etc."
The silence crept in again and the men continued examining the fire, then their feet, then the soil.
"So," Clinton finally said, "can you teach me?"
"Teach you what?"
"You know. To be a man. Like you said. Will you teach me?"
"What did I tell you about taking the Lord's name in vain, Clinton?" Howard stood over the fire, warming his hands, while his 17 year old son sat on one of the tri-pod chairs they had brought. They were sold cheap and made cheaper, with very little material used for the buttocks and no back at all. They are goddamn uncomfortable, Howard thought. He looked at his boy, measuring him. Strong build and average height, but with a streak of mean in him that would sprout up unexpectedly. He's more like my father than I ever had a right to be, Howard reasoned.
They had gotten into the National Forest well after dark the night before. Howard practically had to drag the young man from the house, turning off the computer while Clinton was playing his favorite video game. The moon was high and full when they finally made camp, but at least they had some light to go by. While Clinton was raised working with his hands, he had never pitched a tent, cut firewood or made a fire. This will be his coming into manhood, Howard believed. This will give us something to talk about. Already though, they were trudging through great marshes of silence, with Clinton only speaking occasionally and only then to complain. Raising the boy, Howard and Clinton never saw eye to eye. Howard thought Clinton a mama's boy; Clinton thought his father an asshole. Finally beginning to put a picture of himself together as his son saw him, Howard looked at the boy again, eyeing the way his hands played over the divets in an oak branch.
"These goddamn seats are goddamn uncomfortable, though," he said aloud. The boy looked up, unsure what to make of his father. Howard gave a slight smile and pressed forward. "You ever wonder what God would say if he were to hit his thumb with a hammer. What if he has the hammer at the ready," Howard grabs a similar branch to Clinton's, bends over and pretends to nail, "and then BAM! He hits himself. You think he'd go 'Medamnit!'?" The older man chuckles and eyes his son.
"You're trying too hard, Pop."
"Ah, I see. Well, just trying to lighten the mood," says the elder. He tosses the wood into the fire and the embers float up with the smoke, dissipating in the the cover of the California black oak. "No harm, no foul, I suppose."
"I suppose not. Hey, can I ask you something,?"
"Of course."
"What makes these divets here, in the wood?" Clinton hands the branch to Howard, who turns it over in his hand, feeling the grooves left behind.
"You ever see the half-eaten leaves after a caterpillar gets done feeding? This is similar to that only, instead of a caterpillar doing the chomping, it's a bark beetle. These pesky things get into a forest and can kill 200 year old trees quicker than you'd think. Where a caterpillar eats until they're ready to cocoon, beetles just eat and eat and eat, destroying whole forests. Their grooves make pretty designs in walking sticks, though." Howard hands the branch back to Clinton, who takes it and looks again at the grooves, this time a little more thoughtfully.
"Thanks," he says.
"Yep." They sit in silence a little longer, both looking at the fire as it smolders.
"How'd you learn all this, anyway?"
Howard chuckles half to himself and says, "Well, I had this idea as a kid that a man should be able to track and hunt and know his way around a forest. I didn't realize that a man really needs to know how to work a job, play well with others and know his way around a city. Anyway, I bought lots of books as a kid and spent a lot of time behind your grandpa's house in the woods. Not to mention, I also watched a lot of National Geographic before it was cool to do so and even spent my summers in college hiking across the U.S. and Canada."
"Wait, what?"
"What what?"
"You spent your summers in college hiking across the U.S. and Canada?!"
"Well, yeah. That's how I managed to meet your mother in Oregon. I'm surprised she never told you."
"Come on, Pop, we're close, but we don't talk like that. That's awesome. So, you have a lot of knowledge of this kind of thing. What got you into hiking and how'd you decide to hike across the U.S.? And why Canada of all places? Why not some South American rainforest?"
"OK OK. Haha. For the second question, that's easy enough. I didn't go to the rainforests for two reasons. First: money. Second: language. I hiked Canada for the same reasons I didn't hike South America. And I don't know what got me into hiking. I think it was a combination of just who I was and the books I read, etc."
The silence crept in again and the men continued examining the fire, then their feet, then the soil.
"So," Clinton finally said, "can you teach me?"
"Teach you what?"
"You know. To be a man. Like you said. Will you teach me?"
5.21.2010
The Exchange
The pain in his gut was so intense it made his head buzz. He lay on the cold concrete, his warm blood seeping beneath him and staining the ground, his clothes, his backside.
"And my mom said to always wear clean underwear," he thought. "Good use that's doing." He smiled to himself, thinking of his mother: her warm cocoa eyes, her smile to him when he was a child, the way her hands made soup for him when he was sick.
"Now don't worry, Joshie," she would say, "this is going to warm you up and put you good as new in no time. Just you watch." She would hand him the soup in an overgrown Papa Smurf mug, he laying bundled in blankets on the cinnamon-colored couch in the living room. She'd bend down to him, the back-side of her palm touching his forehead, then cheeks. A quick warning of the soup's heat and then she'd slip two ice cubes in like skinny dippers. He loved hearing the ice crack under the heat of the soup, the cold cubes touching his lip as he sipped, the warmth of the broth seeping down his throat, cascading into his adbomen. "You know," she said once, "I never can tell what your temperature is with my hands, especially after holding that chicken noodle," and she bent over and kissed his forehead.
"Definitely feverish," she said, "but definitely mine." She smiled down at him and he smiled back - feverish, sick and happy.
Now he lay dying in a pool of his own blood on the cold concrete ground outside the elementary school. Perkins said they should meet here and Josh brought the package, as demanded. They met just out of range of the streetlight, each man hiding his wickedness in the shadows. He gave Perkins the brown paper bag and, upon inspecting its contents, Perkins gave him 2 slugs from his .45 for his troubles.
"Thanks mate," the sluggish Aussie said. The streetlight showed the man's shadow lumber back to the Lincoln Towncar. The engine started and then receded into the night.
His breathing was beginning to come in gasps and he could taste the blood in the back of his throat. "Nothing like mom's chicken noodle," he mused. Closing his eyes, breathing through his nose, he thought of her and what she might think of him tonight, bleeding out in the chilly evening.
"And my mom said to always wear clean underwear," he thought. "Good use that's doing." He smiled to himself, thinking of his mother: her warm cocoa eyes, her smile to him when he was a child, the way her hands made soup for him when he was sick.
"Now don't worry, Joshie," she would say, "this is going to warm you up and put you good as new in no time. Just you watch." She would hand him the soup in an overgrown Papa Smurf mug, he laying bundled in blankets on the cinnamon-colored couch in the living room. She'd bend down to him, the back-side of her palm touching his forehead, then cheeks. A quick warning of the soup's heat and then she'd slip two ice cubes in like skinny dippers. He loved hearing the ice crack under the heat of the soup, the cold cubes touching his lip as he sipped, the warmth of the broth seeping down his throat, cascading into his adbomen. "You know," she said once, "I never can tell what your temperature is with my hands, especially after holding that chicken noodle," and she bent over and kissed his forehead.
"Definitely feverish," she said, "but definitely mine." She smiled down at him and he smiled back - feverish, sick and happy.
Now he lay dying in a pool of his own blood on the cold concrete ground outside the elementary school. Perkins said they should meet here and Josh brought the package, as demanded. They met just out of range of the streetlight, each man hiding his wickedness in the shadows. He gave Perkins the brown paper bag and, upon inspecting its contents, Perkins gave him 2 slugs from his .45 for his troubles.
"Thanks mate," the sluggish Aussie said. The streetlight showed the man's shadow lumber back to the Lincoln Towncar. The engine started and then receded into the night.
His breathing was beginning to come in gasps and he could taste the blood in the back of his throat. "Nothing like mom's chicken noodle," he mused. Closing his eyes, breathing through his nose, he thought of her and what she might think of him tonight, bleeding out in the chilly evening.
5.12.2010
In the barn
Just a writing exercise to keep me writing...
-----------------------
We lay in the haystacks, breathing heavily. The deep shade from the barn loft hid the seawater of her eyes from me. Sweat began to glisten and stick below my t-shirt. I lay there, panting. In, a maelstrom of cool air into my nose. Out, a tornado of warmth out my mouth. She rolled onto her side, propping up her head with an arm, looking at me.
Not staring, just casually observing.
We lay like that a while. I, on my back, mostly staring at the roof of the barn, counting the spiderwebs and chips in the paint. She, on her side, observing me with a grin in her eyes until I could stand it no longer. I rolled to my side and matched her posture.
"May I help you?," I asked.
"Oh, you already have, darlin'. Though, I could always use a little MORE help."
Women are not supposed to talk this way, I figured. At least, I had never heard such. She grinned at me, her black hair falling into her eyes, she sweeping it away with her hand.
-----------------------
We lay in the haystacks, breathing heavily. The deep shade from the barn loft hid the seawater of her eyes from me. Sweat began to glisten and stick below my t-shirt. I lay there, panting. In, a maelstrom of cool air into my nose. Out, a tornado of warmth out my mouth. She rolled onto her side, propping up her head with an arm, looking at me.
Not staring, just casually observing.
We lay like that a while. I, on my back, mostly staring at the roof of the barn, counting the spiderwebs and chips in the paint. She, on her side, observing me with a grin in her eyes until I could stand it no longer. I rolled to my side and matched her posture.
"May I help you?," I asked.
"Oh, you already have, darlin'. Though, I could always use a little MORE help."
Women are not supposed to talk this way, I figured. At least, I had never heard such. She grinned at me, her black hair falling into her eyes, she sweeping it away with her hand.
3.31.2010
The Wolves
There was a raging in his heart, like an earthquake, and the waves of his emotions overran him. As a child, he didn't fit in; his father called him wild and his mother, vibrant. If he had an outlet as he grew, he reflected, he may not have ended up on a mountain, in the wilderness, alone.
That isn't true, he told himself. He always had a wolf inside him, and things could be no different.
He sat against a sugar pine, in the middle of the cold winter weather, a fire dug out of the earth, with warming stones in place for the long rest of the evening. He heard the wolves in the darkness, baying. Smiling to himself (for there was no one else to smile to), he whittled at the manzanita branch he found hiking earlier. His hands worked methodically to keep the cold away, scraping here, pruning there. From the raw branch, he began the work and turned it, slowly, into what would be a whistle. It had little shape now, but he saw it, deep down, the whistle in the wood. The potential. The shape within the shapeless.
He kept at it, the working, the whittling. It kept the cold, and the lonelisness, away. The pack he brought into the mountains was now much lighter than when he left the city - he was coming to the point when he would only be able to rely on his own arms and legs and heart for nourishment.
It has come to this, he thought. Soon, I will be a man.
Hours later, he let the fire sink down to embers and covered himself, looking through the pine needles to the expanse of stars above. We never saw these at home, he thought. The Milky Way had begun its sojourn across the night sky and he knew without knowing that it was past midnight. The wolves had gone quiet a while ago and the night animals were all away, tending to their own needs.
Sleeping would be the need most at hand, he reasoned. And yet, he could not sleep. The moon's light was too bright - the woodland was too quiet. His mind wandered too briskly. He called to mind his mother, his sister, his dad. He wondered where they were, what their beds were made of, who they kept for company in the night.
As for me, I have the wolves.
That isn't true, he told himself. He always had a wolf inside him, and things could be no different.
He sat against a sugar pine, in the middle of the cold winter weather, a fire dug out of the earth, with warming stones in place for the long rest of the evening. He heard the wolves in the darkness, baying. Smiling to himself (for there was no one else to smile to), he whittled at the manzanita branch he found hiking earlier. His hands worked methodically to keep the cold away, scraping here, pruning there. From the raw branch, he began the work and turned it, slowly, into what would be a whistle. It had little shape now, but he saw it, deep down, the whistle in the wood. The potential. The shape within the shapeless.
He kept at it, the working, the whittling. It kept the cold, and the lonelisness, away. The pack he brought into the mountains was now much lighter than when he left the city - he was coming to the point when he would only be able to rely on his own arms and legs and heart for nourishment.
It has come to this, he thought. Soon, I will be a man.
Hours later, he let the fire sink down to embers and covered himself, looking through the pine needles to the expanse of stars above. We never saw these at home, he thought. The Milky Way had begun its sojourn across the night sky and he knew without knowing that it was past midnight. The wolves had gone quiet a while ago and the night animals were all away, tending to their own needs.
Sleeping would be the need most at hand, he reasoned. And yet, he could not sleep. The moon's light was too bright - the woodland was too quiet. His mind wandered too briskly. He called to mind his mother, his sister, his dad. He wondered where they were, what their beds were made of, who they kept for company in the night.
As for me, I have the wolves.
9.03.2009
A Hobo's Nap
He showed up to town dirt-covered and his hair whispy in the wind. Keeping it under wraps with an old bandana, beat up and earth-smelling, he came into town disheveled and looking for a shady place to lie his head. Ahead, not more than a mile away, there grew a dogwood tree, plenty shady with a nice lawn below it, perfect for sleeping. The stranger drew up to the tree, measuring it with his eyes, taking in height, girth and all-around build of the lumber. This will do, he thought. I'm no Hawthorne, but this will do nicely.
He lay down his head, pulling off the old neckerchief from his head and putting it over his eyes. Squirming into a comfortable position, he clasped his hands behind his head, crossed his ankles and sighed with relief. Within minutes, he lay there, sleeping contentedly and snoring softly for all to hear.
Passersby stopped to watch the new town hobo, gawking quietly to one another just at his feet, taken aback that such a sight as he would dare nap under their beloved dogwood. A crowd began to gather, not impolitely or loudly, to bear witness to this new feat. For, in the town, no one had ever seen a hobo, a bum, or a homeless man before. Begging, pan-handling and soliciting just weren't done, weren't mentioned, weren't thought of.
Mrs. Flannery, bless her heart, felt poorly for the old fellow and left a jar of her homemade preserves just at his feet. Following suit, Mickey left his old cap next to them and, by evening, the cap was filled with small trinkets, coins and even a few dollar bills.
When the hobo woke a few hours later, he found he rested well and, even more surprisingly, at his feet lay such gifts as to take him aback unawares. "This is the best nap I've ever taken," he reasoned. With that, he picked up his belongings old and new, gave a nod to the dogwood, and continued on his way into the west.
He lay down his head, pulling off the old neckerchief from his head and putting it over his eyes. Squirming into a comfortable position, he clasped his hands behind his head, crossed his ankles and sighed with relief. Within minutes, he lay there, sleeping contentedly and snoring softly for all to hear.
Passersby stopped to watch the new town hobo, gawking quietly to one another just at his feet, taken aback that such a sight as he would dare nap under their beloved dogwood. A crowd began to gather, not impolitely or loudly, to bear witness to this new feat. For, in the town, no one had ever seen a hobo, a bum, or a homeless man before. Begging, pan-handling and soliciting just weren't done, weren't mentioned, weren't thought of.
Mrs. Flannery, bless her heart, felt poorly for the old fellow and left a jar of her homemade preserves just at his feet. Following suit, Mickey left his old cap next to them and, by evening, the cap was filled with small trinkets, coins and even a few dollar bills.
When the hobo woke a few hours later, he found he rested well and, even more surprisingly, at his feet lay such gifts as to take him aback unawares. "This is the best nap I've ever taken," he reasoned. With that, he picked up his belongings old and new, gave a nod to the dogwood, and continued on his way into the west.
His First Game
The stadium loomed before them. Coming down the back entrance in the station wagon, Mikey sat in the front seat, his dad's arm over the seat, left hand tapping out a beat on the steering wheel. Over the radio, Credence played "Put Me in Coach." Mikey was singing along, had just gotten through "I'm ready to play," when they came around the bend and he caught his first up-close-and-personal glimpse of Angel Stadium. His voice caught and he stopped cold.
"Cat got your tongue, kiddo?," his father asked. His dad looked over at him, smiling the way he did when funny, memorable things happened to his only son. Mikey blushed, turned his head and kept staring intently at the shrubs as they moved slowly past. The music continued playing, but Mikey's dad turned it way down, slowly idling forward toward the parking booth. "This is her." Mikey turned back to look at the monolith, the embarrassment apparently forgotten. "You know, I first came to a game here when I was about your age? Yep, the stadium opened in '66 and I was maybe 7 or 8. I've come to more games here than I can count, champ, but this is going to be the best one yet."
"Yeah, you know it!" The boy fidgeted in his seat, hunted out his glove and clutched it in his lap.
Pulling up to the the parking booth, Mikey's dad paid the 8 dollars and turned to the right, parking in the same area he had always parked in. As it was a day game, the two put on sunscreen, sunglasses and ballcaps. Mikey shoved his hand in his glove and drove his opposite fist into the web repeatedly, whistling the Darth Vader tune all the while. They locked up and began making their way to the stadium entrance, Mikey taking 2 steps to his dad's one. The boy got a new feeling up his neck, tingly and happy, making him bounce a little more and talk a little less. He didn't know what to expect of his first ballgame. Outside of baseball and hot dogs, everything was so new.
They came to the ticket-takers and Mikey's dad handed him his own ticket. Feeling it in his hands for the first time, the boy grew more and more excited. People were everywhere, the scents were new and, as they walked into the shade of the stadium a breeze met him in the face, pushing his bangs into his eyes. They got hot dogs, huge sodas and nachos. Mikey carried the gloves and his dad managed to handle everything else. They sat at the very top of the stadium, down the right field line. The boy couldn't believe how large everything was, how the stadium shook with the roar of the crowd, how it seemed like it was its own animal.
In the fourth, they got cotton candy; in the fifth, it was peanuts. In the seventh, they moved down two levels, the boy very quiet and scared of being caught, his father dragging him forward, telling him to be confident and "be cool. Just ... just be cool." They sat down much lower than their original seats and, this time, Mikey could make out the faces of the players, read the numbers on the backs of their jerseys and could see them spit through their teeth. The two sang all of the fight songs, stomped their feet and participated in the wave.
The Angels won that day, beating the Red Sox 12-0. On the way out of the stadium, the boy reasoned he was now a "real fan" since he had now been to a baseball game. His dad, naturally, agreed. "It's true, Mikey. There's no turning back now."
That night, Mikey dreamed he lived in the stadium, his uncles were the starting line-up and his dad managed the whole thing.
"Cat got your tongue, kiddo?," his father asked. His dad looked over at him, smiling the way he did when funny, memorable things happened to his only son. Mikey blushed, turned his head and kept staring intently at the shrubs as they moved slowly past. The music continued playing, but Mikey's dad turned it way down, slowly idling forward toward the parking booth. "This is her." Mikey turned back to look at the monolith, the embarrassment apparently forgotten. "You know, I first came to a game here when I was about your age? Yep, the stadium opened in '66 and I was maybe 7 or 8. I've come to more games here than I can count, champ, but this is going to be the best one yet."
"Yeah, you know it!" The boy fidgeted in his seat, hunted out his glove and clutched it in his lap.
Pulling up to the the parking booth, Mikey's dad paid the 8 dollars and turned to the right, parking in the same area he had always parked in. As it was a day game, the two put on sunscreen, sunglasses and ballcaps. Mikey shoved his hand in his glove and drove his opposite fist into the web repeatedly, whistling the Darth Vader tune all the while. They locked up and began making their way to the stadium entrance, Mikey taking 2 steps to his dad's one. The boy got a new feeling up his neck, tingly and happy, making him bounce a little more and talk a little less. He didn't know what to expect of his first ballgame. Outside of baseball and hot dogs, everything was so new.
They came to the ticket-takers and Mikey's dad handed him his own ticket. Feeling it in his hands for the first time, the boy grew more and more excited. People were everywhere, the scents were new and, as they walked into the shade of the stadium a breeze met him in the face, pushing his bangs into his eyes. They got hot dogs, huge sodas and nachos. Mikey carried the gloves and his dad managed to handle everything else. They sat at the very top of the stadium, down the right field line. The boy couldn't believe how large everything was, how the stadium shook with the roar of the crowd, how it seemed like it was its own animal.
In the fourth, they got cotton candy; in the fifth, it was peanuts. In the seventh, they moved down two levels, the boy very quiet and scared of being caught, his father dragging him forward, telling him to be confident and "be cool. Just ... just be cool." They sat down much lower than their original seats and, this time, Mikey could make out the faces of the players, read the numbers on the backs of their jerseys and could see them spit through their teeth. The two sang all of the fight songs, stomped their feet and participated in the wave.
The Angels won that day, beating the Red Sox 12-0. On the way out of the stadium, the boy reasoned he was now a "real fan" since he had now been to a baseball game. His dad, naturally, agreed. "It's true, Mikey. There's no turning back now."
That night, Mikey dreamed he lived in the stadium, his uncles were the starting line-up and his dad managed the whole thing.
9.02.2009
The Sweet and Pungent Odor of Gasoline
The lights were too bright for his eyes, making him squint into the otherwise perfect darkness. Two headlights, blinding him, shot against the elm and past it, into the high-grassed valley below. But the way the hill dropped off, all he could picture was the elm, a few feet of grass in relief, each blade casting its own shadow, and then nothing. Just the blackness past the blades' individual shadows. But he was facing the lights of the Jeep, hands tied behind his back, standing without his shoes. Where the lights went after him was only his imagination.
An hour and a half previous, he was sleeping alongside his wife in their dowry bed. She, seven years younger than he, awoke first at the pounding on the door and, in turn, awoke him. He was groggy for only a moment, until he heard the balled, angry fists against the oaken entrance. Wiping his eyes and pulling up his khakis, he shouted, "I'm coming, you Charlatans. I'm coming." He shoved his nightshirt haphazardly into his pants, tied his belt, and pushed back the lock of hair as it hung in his face. He kissed his wife once, on the bridge of her nose and motioned for her to remain where she was, tucked neatly under the covers and shivering from her fear.
Plodding to the door in his bare feet, he heard his own clipped footsteps reverberating on the masonry, resounding each time his heel his the tile. I will miss these squares, he thought, and the people that helped lay this floor. Oh, the work that went into this home! But do not think of that, he thought. Those thoughts will only end in your death, anyway. But that is where I am going, is it not? Am I not tramping to my death at this late hour? Again, do not think of it. Ok, I will put it away then.
His guests, only three men, waited for him to open the door and, when he did, they pulled him outside by the collar of his nightshirt. "Kiss your wife, Old Man. You will not be returning."
"That I have done and more this night," he said.
"Then turn, arms behind you." Peter did as he was told, taking a final look at the oak door he carved by hand, it's smooth edges and fine grain. Tying telephone cord around his wrists, they led him back to the jeep in the blackness of the night. It was a new moon and hiding behind the clouds. Even it, he reasoned, did not wish to see this unfold.
They drove for more than an hour over the bumpy road. The air was stifling, the engine loud and he smelled the sweet and pungent odor of gasoline in his nostrils. His arms chafing, he turned to one of the men, Smith - a miner, he remembered, and asked for a scratch. The man chuckled, squinting at the old lord. "Even as you go to your death, you still find the need to have someone scratch your itch? Oh, you dog. You will pay for this." With a rush, Smith gave Peter the back of his hand, swooping downward and scraping his knuckles across the old man's cheekbone, then mouth, then clear. Pursing his lips, Peter tasted the sweet-iron of blood. It had been too long since last he bled, he reasoned. Another reason for this game.
"Why didn't you kill me back there, in my home?"
"It would have been too easy. We wanted you out in the farmland, in the air where you beat those who worked for you. We wanted you to die in the land that made you wealthy, not in the comfort of your home where you enjoyed your riches. There must be justice."
"You speak of justice as though you are intimate with her."
"Soon," spoke the driver, "you will be familiar with her, too."
They pulled up to the elm, leaving the Jeep running. By the sound of it, there was an exhaust leak. Each getting out in turn, they pulled him out, dropping him on the hard soil. It was mid-spring and he felt the wind whistle under the truck and move the hairs on his toes. Now he stood facing the Jeep, looking into its lights, breathing lightly. This is easier than I thought, he reasoned. This is but a small thing. Just do not dwell on it, and things will be fine. Just do not dwell on it.
The three men walked to the back of the truck, opened it, and each pulled out a carbine. The bolts went into their places with the familiar pop-slide of his youth. Each would take responsibility for the death, he thought. Not one man would be free of this sin. Walking back around, the man who was in the passenger seat - Frank, he believed - a farmhand, took him behind the wrists, led him until he faced the elm and kicked him behind the knees, leveling him. I was right, he thought. The lights go off into the darkness. It seems a great cliff, this tiny knoll in the darkness. But I remember it well; it is a place I used to tumble as a boy. His head was placed against the jigsaw-puzzle bark of the tree, eyes looking down. Not much longer now, he thought.
The cold iron of the carbines found the back of his neck, at the base of the skull. One. Two. Three. Yes, he could feel each one pleasantly against his neck, contrasting the warmth of the night. He breathed in long, slow sobs now, ready for it to be over. The men looked at one another, each giving a curt nod, and squeezed the triggers nearly simultaneously. The echo resounded off the trees into the still, quiet night.
The man's body slumped forward, head backward, leading with the neck. The bullets found homes in the tree at different angles and his blood, dark as the night now, washed over the fresh wounds of the elm. The three assassins got back in the Jeep and, calmly putting the truck into gear, drove back the way they came. Peter remained on his knees, in the darkness, until he was found the next dawn by a neighbor who heard the shots and woke in the night.
An hour and a half previous, he was sleeping alongside his wife in their dowry bed. She, seven years younger than he, awoke first at the pounding on the door and, in turn, awoke him. He was groggy for only a moment, until he heard the balled, angry fists against the oaken entrance. Wiping his eyes and pulling up his khakis, he shouted, "I'm coming, you Charlatans. I'm coming." He shoved his nightshirt haphazardly into his pants, tied his belt, and pushed back the lock of hair as it hung in his face. He kissed his wife once, on the bridge of her nose and motioned for her to remain where she was, tucked neatly under the covers and shivering from her fear.
Plodding to the door in his bare feet, he heard his own clipped footsteps reverberating on the masonry, resounding each time his heel his the tile. I will miss these squares, he thought, and the people that helped lay this floor. Oh, the work that went into this home! But do not think of that, he thought. Those thoughts will only end in your death, anyway. But that is where I am going, is it not? Am I not tramping to my death at this late hour? Again, do not think of it. Ok, I will put it away then.
His guests, only three men, waited for him to open the door and, when he did, they pulled him outside by the collar of his nightshirt. "Kiss your wife, Old Man. You will not be returning."
"That I have done and more this night," he said.
"Then turn, arms behind you." Peter did as he was told, taking a final look at the oak door he carved by hand, it's smooth edges and fine grain. Tying telephone cord around his wrists, they led him back to the jeep in the blackness of the night. It was a new moon and hiding behind the clouds. Even it, he reasoned, did not wish to see this unfold.
They drove for more than an hour over the bumpy road. The air was stifling, the engine loud and he smelled the sweet and pungent odor of gasoline in his nostrils. His arms chafing, he turned to one of the men, Smith - a miner, he remembered, and asked for a scratch. The man chuckled, squinting at the old lord. "Even as you go to your death, you still find the need to have someone scratch your itch? Oh, you dog. You will pay for this." With a rush, Smith gave Peter the back of his hand, swooping downward and scraping his knuckles across the old man's cheekbone, then mouth, then clear. Pursing his lips, Peter tasted the sweet-iron of blood. It had been too long since last he bled, he reasoned. Another reason for this game.
"Why didn't you kill me back there, in my home?"
"It would have been too easy. We wanted you out in the farmland, in the air where you beat those who worked for you. We wanted you to die in the land that made you wealthy, not in the comfort of your home where you enjoyed your riches. There must be justice."
"You speak of justice as though you are intimate with her."
"Soon," spoke the driver, "you will be familiar with her, too."
They pulled up to the elm, leaving the Jeep running. By the sound of it, there was an exhaust leak. Each getting out in turn, they pulled him out, dropping him on the hard soil. It was mid-spring and he felt the wind whistle under the truck and move the hairs on his toes. Now he stood facing the Jeep, looking into its lights, breathing lightly. This is easier than I thought, he reasoned. This is but a small thing. Just do not dwell on it, and things will be fine. Just do not dwell on it.
The three men walked to the back of the truck, opened it, and each pulled out a carbine. The bolts went into their places with the familiar pop-slide of his youth. Each would take responsibility for the death, he thought. Not one man would be free of this sin. Walking back around, the man who was in the passenger seat - Frank, he believed - a farmhand, took him behind the wrists, led him until he faced the elm and kicked him behind the knees, leveling him. I was right, he thought. The lights go off into the darkness. It seems a great cliff, this tiny knoll in the darkness. But I remember it well; it is a place I used to tumble as a boy. His head was placed against the jigsaw-puzzle bark of the tree, eyes looking down. Not much longer now, he thought.
The cold iron of the carbines found the back of his neck, at the base of the skull. One. Two. Three. Yes, he could feel each one pleasantly against his neck, contrasting the warmth of the night. He breathed in long, slow sobs now, ready for it to be over. The men looked at one another, each giving a curt nod, and squeezed the triggers nearly simultaneously. The echo resounded off the trees into the still, quiet night.
The man's body slumped forward, head backward, leading with the neck. The bullets found homes in the tree at different angles and his blood, dark as the night now, washed over the fresh wounds of the elm. The three assassins got back in the Jeep and, calmly putting the truck into gear, drove back the way they came. Peter remained on his knees, in the darkness, until he was found the next dawn by a neighbor who heard the shots and woke in the night.
8.31.2009
The Earthling
I stood at the height of the sand, looking down at the waves as they came in. Behind me, the lifeguard's tower held up a yellow sign, with a black circle in the center. No surfing, the symbol signed. Undertow. The surfers called it being black balled, hating the guards for keeping them at bay. I stood there in the afternoon sun, children and families swirling about me. And yet in that moment, I counted myself alone.
There was an onshore wind flattening the waves and blowing in my face, but the currents continued to swell and batter the shore just the same. A girl no more than eight had pulled a rope of bull kelp from the shore, probably dislodged from some underwater forest far away, and swung it about her like a whip, keeping her boyish mate in tow, they playing tug-o-war, or she slapping the waves in her glee. The two of them danced and hopped over the shallows, running into the water and retreating just as quickly. In my mind, I thought up little poems and lines about the girl with the bull whip of bull kelp, slaughtering the sea with its currency.
The sun was hot on my bare shoulders and, as I had come ill-prepared, they began to redden and burn. I pulled off my tank top and walked down the little hill toward the Pacific. Her foam kissed my toes and sent a shiver up my spine. It made me pause half a second, just a touch fearful of the cold. It's a wonder the things we become afraid of as we tramp off into the all-powerful ocean. I kept walking, ankle-deep, now calves immersed, now up to my knees. Every few moments, another wave would come tumbling toward me and I, like a deer in the headlights, had to give pause until it roiled past me.
Once knee-height, I bent forward and grabbed great scoops of sea water, splashing my chest and shivering in the sun. O sea, how I missed thee! Now came a taller wave, not yet broken, not yet succumbing to that on-shore wind. I peered at her, put my right foot back and dove into her foam, feeling engulfed in her weight and letting her roll over my back. All the time, my eyes were shut tight, my legs dolphin-kicking like a true swimmer until I emerged, unscathed.
I looked back and noted the shore's distance. Who needed the old earth, I said to myself, when we have the sea to comfort us. I turned and saw the next wave coming. Planting my feet, I gave her my back and she spread her arms around me, pushing me half a step forward. O sea, how I love thee! Now swimming for my worth, I dove through wave after wave, resting just before her depths were too much for my height to reach sandy bottom. Gasping for air, my lips tasting of salt, I heaved great gasps, calming myself into the rhythm of the waves. I gave the earth one last glance, breathed deeply again, and kept swimming toward the sun.
And that, my neighbors, is how I came to Atlantis.
There was an onshore wind flattening the waves and blowing in my face, but the currents continued to swell and batter the shore just the same. A girl no more than eight had pulled a rope of bull kelp from the shore, probably dislodged from some underwater forest far away, and swung it about her like a whip, keeping her boyish mate in tow, they playing tug-o-war, or she slapping the waves in her glee. The two of them danced and hopped over the shallows, running into the water and retreating just as quickly. In my mind, I thought up little poems and lines about the girl with the bull whip of bull kelp, slaughtering the sea with its currency.
The sun was hot on my bare shoulders and, as I had come ill-prepared, they began to redden and burn. I pulled off my tank top and walked down the little hill toward the Pacific. Her foam kissed my toes and sent a shiver up my spine. It made me pause half a second, just a touch fearful of the cold. It's a wonder the things we become afraid of as we tramp off into the all-powerful ocean. I kept walking, ankle-deep, now calves immersed, now up to my knees. Every few moments, another wave would come tumbling toward me and I, like a deer in the headlights, had to give pause until it roiled past me.
Once knee-height, I bent forward and grabbed great scoops of sea water, splashing my chest and shivering in the sun. O sea, how I missed thee! Now came a taller wave, not yet broken, not yet succumbing to that on-shore wind. I peered at her, put my right foot back and dove into her foam, feeling engulfed in her weight and letting her roll over my back. All the time, my eyes were shut tight, my legs dolphin-kicking like a true swimmer until I emerged, unscathed.
I looked back and noted the shore's distance. Who needed the old earth, I said to myself, when we have the sea to comfort us. I turned and saw the next wave coming. Planting my feet, I gave her my back and she spread her arms around me, pushing me half a step forward. O sea, how I love thee! Now swimming for my worth, I dove through wave after wave, resting just before her depths were too much for my height to reach sandy bottom. Gasping for air, my lips tasting of salt, I heaved great gasps, calming myself into the rhythm of the waves. I gave the earth one last glance, breathed deeply again, and kept swimming toward the sun.
And that, my neighbors, is how I came to Atlantis.
8.21.2009
The Unwed Bride
Black suit exposed, trench coat slicking in the rain, he stood leaning on his umbrella, it closed and spike firmly planted in the quickening mud. Hair bolted to his scalp, the water ran between his glasses and face, making it hard to see. But it didn't matter. His eyes were closed anyway. Thinking. He stood surrounded by people he had rarely seen, let alone met. But she had. These were the ghosts of her relationships, and she was the shatter-point; the reason they were all gathered in the rain, shoes going the hell in this downpour.
She died the week before, making a left turn in an intersection. A van, right signal on, blew through the light as she was turning, t-boning the sub-compact and ramming the girl right to Jesus. In that instant the hammer came down on her life, creating fissures and cracks between all of her relationships. Even in her death she created relationships where, before, only strangers stood.
Her mother hadn’t spoken with her dad in nearly ten years. Now, they cried on one another's shoulder, his arm wrapped round her waist, holding the umbrella over her head. In due time, they would become good friends again – never lovers – and would have lunch once a week at the all-night diner.
The rain-sodden young man continued on, his eyes closed beyond the glasses. He listened to the monk, chanting in Mandarin. He knew the girl was a Buddhist, but somehow pictured a Western funeral. The scene was correct – rain, black on black attire, tears – but the monk was unexpected. There would be a prayer ceremony to make her journey easier every seven days for the next 49 days. Her name would be written in calligraphy on the headstone and, when he died, he imagined his name would join hers, they laying together like children at naptime for eternity.
They met when he was in college. She was three years his junior and he was a fifth year senior. They talked much too late and worked at being deep and stable, with wild outbursts in the night. His favored, most untamed memories coming in waves now: he pictured the late-night runs to the top of the bell-tower, the wine-scented kisses, the unwound feeling in the pit of his stomach. His dad didn’t know what he saw in her. Her mom thought he was immature. But they worked well together, not quite opposites, but bringing a balance to the relationship. The following year, they moved in together.
Things went pleasantly, but he never gave her his name. His one regret, for the rest of his life, was that she died without his name. And he had worked so hard at making it a good one.
She died the week before, making a left turn in an intersection. A van, right signal on, blew through the light as she was turning, t-boning the sub-compact and ramming the girl right to Jesus. In that instant the hammer came down on her life, creating fissures and cracks between all of her relationships. Even in her death she created relationships where, before, only strangers stood.
Her mother hadn’t spoken with her dad in nearly ten years. Now, they cried on one another's shoulder, his arm wrapped round her waist, holding the umbrella over her head. In due time, they would become good friends again – never lovers – and would have lunch once a week at the all-night diner.
The rain-sodden young man continued on, his eyes closed beyond the glasses. He listened to the monk, chanting in Mandarin. He knew the girl was a Buddhist, but somehow pictured a Western funeral. The scene was correct – rain, black on black attire, tears – but the monk was unexpected. There would be a prayer ceremony to make her journey easier every seven days for the next 49 days. Her name would be written in calligraphy on the headstone and, when he died, he imagined his name would join hers, they laying together like children at naptime for eternity.
They met when he was in college. She was three years his junior and he was a fifth year senior. They talked much too late and worked at being deep and stable, with wild outbursts in the night. His favored, most untamed memories coming in waves now: he pictured the late-night runs to the top of the bell-tower, the wine-scented kisses, the unwound feeling in the pit of his stomach. His dad didn’t know what he saw in her. Her mom thought he was immature. But they worked well together, not quite opposites, but bringing a balance to the relationship. The following year, they moved in together.
Things went pleasantly, but he never gave her his name. His one regret, for the rest of his life, was that she died without his name. And he had worked so hard at making it a good one.
8.18.2009
The Warming House
His favorite part of the day was the early morning. He'd awaken just before the sun would light the sky, cold in his longjohns, pulling his socks from the foot of the bed, having kept them warm under the covers. Next, he hauled the jeans into shape from the cold, hard floor and, standing, tugged them up, buttoning, zipping and leaving the suspenders to dangle. He'd pull on another shirt, right the suspenders, throw on the heavy flannel jacket, goose-down hat and black scarf. The doorknob would be deathly cold, but he'd grit his teeth, touch the knob once, then twice, then wrestle it until the old oaken door pried ajar, just far enough for him to get his body out, without awakening his sleeping wife who lay quietly bundled up in blankets and nightclothes. The lantern guttered in the wind, then resumed its strength as the passed through the doorway and closed the guardian behind him.
The air ripped through his bones, even with all the layers attempting protection. He'd walk over to the shed, blowing warm air into his cold hands. Gloves were a bother, he imagined. They inhibited his work. Each day, he went to the wood pile as the sky began to gray and pulled 4 or 5 decent chunks of pine for hewing. He'd turn each piece over in his hands, expecting it for moisture, bugs and something else. He couldn't place it, but some pieces got saved for later carving. They were too good to be burned.
Once upon the chopping block, his arms and axe handled the lumber squarely. Whistle, chop, pry, grunt. Whistle, chop, pry, grunt. He'd repeat the process, exhaling a torrent of stream as he did so. He never cut enough wood for the next day. That was tomorrow's work and he wanted to be able to do something with his hands in the morning. The wood would be corded and slung over his large shoulders with a bit of twine, the ax returned to the shed after he tested the edge with his thumb. He'd trudge back to the log cabin of his youth, open the door and slide in. Close the door. Walk to the stove, kneel.
By this time, the sky was turning orange and red. His beard had snowflakes in it and his cheeks were rosey red. Take off the hat. Rest, palms on the floor. Untie the wood. Stretching his neck, he'd look into the fireplace and see the same old grate he'd stacked wood in since he was 9. Again, the wood went in and the fire lit. Hanging a pot of water, he'd warm it enough for tea, then continue warming the remainder for the wash basin.
The house warmed enough, he woke his wife.
The air ripped through his bones, even with all the layers attempting protection. He'd walk over to the shed, blowing warm air into his cold hands. Gloves were a bother, he imagined. They inhibited his work. Each day, he went to the wood pile as the sky began to gray and pulled 4 or 5 decent chunks of pine for hewing. He'd turn each piece over in his hands, expecting it for moisture, bugs and something else. He couldn't place it, but some pieces got saved for later carving. They were too good to be burned.
Once upon the chopping block, his arms and axe handled the lumber squarely. Whistle, chop, pry, grunt. Whistle, chop, pry, grunt. He'd repeat the process, exhaling a torrent of stream as he did so. He never cut enough wood for the next day. That was tomorrow's work and he wanted to be able to do something with his hands in the morning. The wood would be corded and slung over his large shoulders with a bit of twine, the ax returned to the shed after he tested the edge with his thumb. He'd trudge back to the log cabin of his youth, open the door and slide in. Close the door. Walk to the stove, kneel.
By this time, the sky was turning orange and red. His beard had snowflakes in it and his cheeks were rosey red. Take off the hat. Rest, palms on the floor. Untie the wood. Stretching his neck, he'd look into the fireplace and see the same old grate he'd stacked wood in since he was 9. Again, the wood went in and the fire lit. Hanging a pot of water, he'd warm it enough for tea, then continue warming the remainder for the wash basin.
The house warmed enough, he woke his wife.
6.23.2009
For the 50
I have not the memory of your sunbeam smile as it caressed
and enveloped
the western horizon, casting fires of red and orange over
the humpbacked
arc of the waves. I have only heard the stories of your
current-changing love
or how the winds of your voice blow cool refreshment to
the weary soldiers,
reviving them, relieving their suffering and stanching
their mortal wounds.
But I have traced the curvature of your ribs in starlight,
and followed the line
of your abdomen to the little cave of your belly. I have seen
your firefly eyes in
the wild darkness and at the first paint-strokes of the dawn;
I have been to the
warm and radiant center of your self, liquid in all its perfect
alchemy, and I have
taken refuge in the raven-dark tangle of your mane. Consuming
fire, you have
crested the impossibility of myth and set down at the foot of
my ever-malleable
reality. O dearest love, you are both human and inhuman in these
frail eyes. My
goddess of the flesh, my tamer of titans, it is your naked truth
that comes shining
as a sword, it is the sweet scent of your mouth that leads me
into war.
and enveloped
the western horizon, casting fires of red and orange over
the humpbacked
arc of the waves. I have only heard the stories of your
current-changing love
or how the winds of your voice blow cool refreshment to
the weary soldiers,
reviving them, relieving their suffering and stanching
their mortal wounds.
But I have traced the curvature of your ribs in starlight,
and followed the line
of your abdomen to the little cave of your belly. I have seen
your firefly eyes in
the wild darkness and at the first paint-strokes of the dawn;
I have been to the
warm and radiant center of your self, liquid in all its perfect
alchemy, and I have
taken refuge in the raven-dark tangle of your mane. Consuming
fire, you have
crested the impossibility of myth and set down at the foot of
my ever-malleable
reality. O dearest love, you are both human and inhuman in these
frail eyes. My
goddess of the flesh, my tamer of titans, it is your naked truth
that comes shining
as a sword, it is the sweet scent of your mouth that leads me
into war.
5.15.2009
Broke
There isn't much time, he thought, before the rest of my life looks like my wallet: empty. Nothing there but laundry lint and, as he folded up the battered leather and returned it, ass-shaped and thin, to its shelter inside his left-rear pocket, even the lint came tumbling down to the carpeted floor.
Well, there goes that.
Well, there goes that.
Maiden
I have awakened with clarity.
She's gone again - a ship in the fog; quietly enveloped
in the night mists, she carries low her cargo on the surf
while the waves sunder against her hull, crying out for their maiden.
She is a pirate's bounty in waiting,
a schooner setting out to lose herself at sea.
She will be shipwrecked, she will go down fighting; and I will find her,
moored on the beach of my mothers, and I will stitch those tattered sails,
putting nails to wood and sweat to brow. I will bring a sea-worthy smile
to her lips with the strength of my arm.
Yet for now, her noiseless swish of hips takes the tide
and leaves the strong scent of lovers to
linger in the bedsheets.
She's gone again - a ship in the fog; quietly enveloped
in the night mists, she carries low her cargo on the surf
while the waves sunder against her hull, crying out for their maiden.
She is a pirate's bounty in waiting,
a schooner setting out to lose herself at sea.
She will be shipwrecked, she will go down fighting; and I will find her,
moored on the beach of my mothers, and I will stitch those tattered sails,
putting nails to wood and sweat to brow. I will bring a sea-worthy smile
to her lips with the strength of my arm.
Yet for now, her noiseless swish of hips takes the tide
and leaves the strong scent of lovers to
linger in the bedsheets.
The Siren
She's a complicated soul housed in a complicated frame;
her eyes do a complicated dance in this complicated game -
her hips call to me a chorus in this complicated way
like a siren on the rocks, enticing her simple-minded prey.
With my simple sea-faring skiff newly anchored in the bay,
I’m the dinner for this monster, a simple traveler doomed to pay.
and I see her on the rocks, just as naked as my song –
My heart simply seizes in my throat, but I continue to go along
Her eyes now a simple flame, only passionate and strong
and I tread toward my destruction, my will is dead and gone.
She speaks a complicated word in my simple-minded ear
and grips me with complicated emotion, more than simple-minded fear
My simple clothes come off like skin, I’m shedding complicated years –
This old sailor is devoured, now it’s all become so clear.
She’s my simple love and I’m her complicated tears.
her eyes do a complicated dance in this complicated game -
her hips call to me a chorus in this complicated way
like a siren on the rocks, enticing her simple-minded prey.
With my simple sea-faring skiff newly anchored in the bay,
I’m the dinner for this monster, a simple traveler doomed to pay.
and I see her on the rocks, just as naked as my song –
My heart simply seizes in my throat, but I continue to go along
Her eyes now a simple flame, only passionate and strong
and I tread toward my destruction, my will is dead and gone.
She speaks a complicated word in my simple-minded ear
and grips me with complicated emotion, more than simple-minded fear
My simple clothes come off like skin, I’m shedding complicated years –
This old sailor is devoured, now it’s all become so clear.
She’s my simple love and I’m her complicated tears.
4.22.2009
Hawaii
If anyone checks this and was wondering, I heard back from the University of Hawaii. I didn't get in.
3.12.2009
The Cobbler
His work had been walked on since he turned 12 when he took the apprentice job. Mr. Darvish, the local cobbler, had instructed him on how to repair the soles of shoes and after a time he felt capable and confident. He would attend to a client now and again - Widow McIntyre, for instance, came in once every six months or so and she had a tendency to smile with her eyes and make the young men on the street look twice. She was always passing by the shop window but, luckily for Seamus, he was always working and had little time for women of her character. It was a sad shame about Mr. McIntyre, though. Old man Johnson, on the other hand, came in once a week - not just for sole repair, but for conversation and carrying a slow sigh. When the boy was young, he remembered Old man Johnson by the sigh.
The bell hanging from the doorway to the shop in East Mickmack rang while the hinges lent their accompanying squeak. Seamus, looking up from his bent over position, noticed the haberdasher as he came in, walked to the counter and sighed with his whole body. Old man Johnson, he thought. The boy was 13 at the time.
"Afternoon, Mr. Johnson."
"Aye. Afternoon. You got any old leathers lying 'round the store I can take home? For the pup, you see."
"Oh, I think I can find something, sir. Let me ask Mr. Darvish to be certain, though."
"No, no. No need. Nevermind it then."
The two of them sat and talked for half an hour about the trout and how they were biting, about the time it took for the sun to set in the evenings now, and the way Mr. Johnson's horses were reacting to the new feed. At the end of that time, the old man shook his feeble frame once more and was on his way.
As Seamus sat back down to his work, he sighed too. Thanks be to Mr. Johnson for breaking up the work.
The bell hanging from the doorway to the shop in East Mickmack rang while the hinges lent their accompanying squeak. Seamus, looking up from his bent over position, noticed the haberdasher as he came in, walked to the counter and sighed with his whole body. Old man Johnson, he thought. The boy was 13 at the time.
"Afternoon, Mr. Johnson."
"Aye. Afternoon. You got any old leathers lying 'round the store I can take home? For the pup, you see."
"Oh, I think I can find something, sir. Let me ask Mr. Darvish to be certain, though."
"No, no. No need. Nevermind it then."
The two of them sat and talked for half an hour about the trout and how they were biting, about the time it took for the sun to set in the evenings now, and the way Mr. Johnson's horses were reacting to the new feed. At the end of that time, the old man shook his feeble frame once more and was on his way.
As Seamus sat back down to his work, he sighed too. Thanks be to Mr. Johnson for breaking up the work.
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