SunriseThe sun rises and I am shadow.
Cowering to the West, I run, sliding to the far side of every house and hill, rock and rill, hiding from the fearful East and the destruction that rebounds from every surface. The sun reaches its zenith and I squeeze myself beneath each bush and foxhole, retreat to my deepest caves. Sun sets as I recoil from the West, crouching in eastward streaks that rest easier as the night sprawls. I wish one day the light would catch me. I wish one day the dawn would win. I am weary of being nothing. |
Watch HerThe quickly winded and the easily worried and the soon whelmed watch out their windows and wonder at the things that happen and think of the things they'd do too if only they would.
Their palms burning with actions unacted, lips buzzing and tongues thick with words unspoken and songs unsung, their heads aching with trapped ideas going half-mad as their bellies boil with stir-crazy dreams, they watch. One stumbles for the door, then, winded and worried and whelmed, returns window-ward. But once more, she scrabbles up. Finds a door. Walks in faulty circles. Watch her stammer out her dreams. |
The Tip of the Iceberg
My ice caps are melting
From the inside
Licked by a fire, a flame of
sorrow and fury that cannot be
contained and
the ice caps are melting and
Tears drench their insides
But cannot quench the flame.
I am a hollowed out glacier
Volcanic at heart
And the ice outside glistens
And the silver mirror stands
But not forever
Not for long
I’m melting from the inside.
“I don’t think you understood the assignment.”
I blink. I don’t think I gave a busted dam about the assignment. Do I? It grows harder to tell.
“You were intended to write an essay,” he says in a biting, faux-patient voice, “on global warming. Your position on the matter, whether or not it is human in origin, whether or not anything can be done about it, and your evidence to support your position. I did not ask,”
He shakes the single paper. “I did not ask for teen angst poetry. This is not social science. This—this should go to your English teacher, or better yet, sit in your journal until your literary taste matures enough that you can see how foolish you sound. This doesn’t even rhyme.”
“Rime?” I blink. The heat is raging. A bead of sweat rolls down my neck. “I don’t think you understand my assignment,” I say woodenly, or rather, coldy. It won’t last. I do care about the assignment. I don’t even know how much I care.
“I don’t—I don’t understand your assignment? What is the matter with you, boy? I gave you your assignment.”
He did not give me my assignment. I blink the water from my eyes. It’s all melting away, now. It’s coming clear. The ice has served its purpose.
“What, you’re crying, now? You’re crying?” He slaps the paper [...Read More]
From the inside
Licked by a fire, a flame of
sorrow and fury that cannot be
contained and
the ice caps are melting and
Tears drench their insides
But cannot quench the flame.
I am a hollowed out glacier
Volcanic at heart
And the ice outside glistens
And the silver mirror stands
But not forever
Not for long
I’m melting from the inside.
“I don’t think you understood the assignment.”
I blink. I don’t think I gave a busted dam about the assignment. Do I? It grows harder to tell.
“You were intended to write an essay,” he says in a biting, faux-patient voice, “on global warming. Your position on the matter, whether or not it is human in origin, whether or not anything can be done about it, and your evidence to support your position. I did not ask,”
He shakes the single paper. “I did not ask for teen angst poetry. This is not social science. This—this should go to your English teacher, or better yet, sit in your journal until your literary taste matures enough that you can see how foolish you sound. This doesn’t even rhyme.”
“Rime?” I blink. The heat is raging. A bead of sweat rolls down my neck. “I don’t think you understand my assignment,” I say woodenly, or rather, coldy. It won’t last. I do care about the assignment. I don’t even know how much I care.
“I don’t—I don’t understand your assignment? What is the matter with you, boy? I gave you your assignment.”
He did not give me my assignment. I blink the water from my eyes. It’s all melting away, now. It’s coming clear. The ice has served its purpose.
“What, you’re crying, now? You’re crying?” He slaps the paper [...Read More]
Missing People
People go missing all the time. Everyone assumes it’s kidnappers, or murderers, or any number of awful things. And some of it’s bound to be, sure, ‘cause there are kidnappers and murderers running amok. But so much of it’s because people trip and fall through fairy-gates, or spin around too many times on a certain sidewalk crack, and slip sideways into another world. Some of them closed their eyes and pressed on the backs of their eyelids too long, and faded into another dimension. None of them come back.
Alfonse, my twin, he’s been missing for two years. We’re thirteen now, unless time moves differently in his new world or dimension or fairy circle, in which case he might be eleven still, or two-hundred and forty-seven, or eighteen, or who knows what all. But I’m thirteen, and too old to be harboring fantasies of fairy-gates, my parents tell me. We have to move on, they say, and accept that Alfonse might never come back—that we’ll never stop looking and hoping, but we must move on.
I know he’s not coming back. They never do. Not the ones who fall out of the world. And I miss him, ‘course I do. But every time I peek around a corner and see Mum curled into a ball on the floor, her teeth clenched around a pillow to mute her screams as tears ran down her cheeks, I shake my head.
“Mummy,” I whisper time and again, wrapping my arms around her. “Shhh. He’s fine. I know we all miss him, but he’s fine. I know he is. My twin-sense knows he is.”
We’ve never had twin-sense, but there are some things I do just know, and it was the only thing I could say to calm them down at first. I tried to explain about the fairy-gates and other worlds, but that only got them worried about me, so then I just told them it was twin-sense and left it at that. But as the months wore on, as we passed the one year mark, the comfort seemed to wear thin.
Alicia, they said, you need to let go. They’re the ones who [...Read More]
Alfonse, my twin, he’s been missing for two years. We’re thirteen now, unless time moves differently in his new world or dimension or fairy circle, in which case he might be eleven still, or two-hundred and forty-seven, or eighteen, or who knows what all. But I’m thirteen, and too old to be harboring fantasies of fairy-gates, my parents tell me. We have to move on, they say, and accept that Alfonse might never come back—that we’ll never stop looking and hoping, but we must move on.
I know he’s not coming back. They never do. Not the ones who fall out of the world. And I miss him, ‘course I do. But every time I peek around a corner and see Mum curled into a ball on the floor, her teeth clenched around a pillow to mute her screams as tears ran down her cheeks, I shake my head.
“Mummy,” I whisper time and again, wrapping my arms around her. “Shhh. He’s fine. I know we all miss him, but he’s fine. I know he is. My twin-sense knows he is.”
We’ve never had twin-sense, but there are some things I do just know, and it was the only thing I could say to calm them down at first. I tried to explain about the fairy-gates and other worlds, but that only got them worried about me, so then I just told them it was twin-sense and left it at that. But as the months wore on, as we passed the one year mark, the comfort seemed to wear thin.
Alicia, they said, you need to let go. They’re the ones who [...Read More]
Of Mice and Monsters
“There is a man who twists the necks of caged mice. There is a coward who fancies himself a warrior. There is a man who squeezes little songbirds in his hand, listening to the helpless cheeping, and supposes himself a bullfighter, a breaker of wild stallions. This is the man that preys on small women and makes them smaller, that crushes a bruised flower until there is naught but the scent; for that helpless scent is incense to his assumed godhood.”
Benjamin didn’t know what the scrap was from, whether paper or hardback, chick lit or horror. Google Books turned up nothing when he’d searched the words, though he entered them with care and searched them thrice.
He knew even less about the providential breeze that had swept it into his path two weeks after his girlfriend killed herself. The half-page was clean, so far as wind-tossed debris went, and the reverse side said only “Chapter Two: Of Mice and Monsters”, with the beginning description of a private library.
Of Mice and Monsters… Ah, how those words took him back, and he did not like where. He had owned a mouse once, a tawny little thing with tiny black bead-eyes. It was that mouse that first learned to fear him, that first taught him the delight of breaking a creature. [...Purchase Full Story]
Benjamin didn’t know what the scrap was from, whether paper or hardback, chick lit or horror. Google Books turned up nothing when he’d searched the words, though he entered them with care and searched them thrice.
He knew even less about the providential breeze that had swept it into his path two weeks after his girlfriend killed herself. The half-page was clean, so far as wind-tossed debris went, and the reverse side said only “Chapter Two: Of Mice and Monsters”, with the beginning description of a private library.
Of Mice and Monsters… Ah, how those words took him back, and he did not like where. He had owned a mouse once, a tawny little thing with tiny black bead-eyes. It was that mouse that first learned to fear him, that first taught him the delight of breaking a creature. [...Purchase Full Story]
New Year's Chance
It was year’s first day, and everyone was up with the sun to watch the parade.
Chance’s Ill Daughter had been chased out of every city and town in Yaa as the past night had fallen—dressed in tattered rags and muck, shoeless and shave-headed with black warts painted on her face, the girl was hollered and harried into the darkness, but she was paid for her unlucky part. It was not like the days of old, when the players were chosen without choice, stones were thrown instead of rotted fruit, and ill-luck was not considered dead until the girl was.
Today, a beauteous girl walked as Chance’s Fair Daughter at the forefront of a grand parade, with pipers and jugglers and animals, and all the townsfolk out to wave and watch, or buy food and pretties at stands, throw newly bloomed flowers, and of course, to place small tokens in the shrines of Old Man Chance—never in appearance himself, as it was considered unlucky to draw the fatelord’s eye.
The excitement of the day caught up even Syawn, who was remarkably imperturbable for a child of twelve—twelve just today, with everyone’s age rolling forward on the new year’s morn. Orange curls caught and blown about by the brisk sea breeze (the sea insisted that it was winter yet, while the grasses of the hillside said spring was come and well come,) wide green eyes delighted in the scene, his hands clapping as drums and hornpipes danced past.
Spotting a taffy stand, he remembered his true purpose. The spectacle was there to sidetrack others, not him. A street urchin all on his own couldn’t afford to be distracted from making his way in the world. There were pockets to be picked and candies to be pinched.
He jostled backwards against a woman who’d just purchased a handful of taffies, causing her to fumble them. “Sorry, ma’am.” He ducked to pick them up and handed back all but one. He slipped away before untrapping it from its leafy wrapping and popping the sticky sweet in his mouth. He smiled and picked up a fallen flower to throw back out into the street. Who said he couldn’t have just as fine a day as the king himself? [...Read More]
Chance’s Ill Daughter had been chased out of every city and town in Yaa as the past night had fallen—dressed in tattered rags and muck, shoeless and shave-headed with black warts painted on her face, the girl was hollered and harried into the darkness, but she was paid for her unlucky part. It was not like the days of old, when the players were chosen without choice, stones were thrown instead of rotted fruit, and ill-luck was not considered dead until the girl was.
Today, a beauteous girl walked as Chance’s Fair Daughter at the forefront of a grand parade, with pipers and jugglers and animals, and all the townsfolk out to wave and watch, or buy food and pretties at stands, throw newly bloomed flowers, and of course, to place small tokens in the shrines of Old Man Chance—never in appearance himself, as it was considered unlucky to draw the fatelord’s eye.
The excitement of the day caught up even Syawn, who was remarkably imperturbable for a child of twelve—twelve just today, with everyone’s age rolling forward on the new year’s morn. Orange curls caught and blown about by the brisk sea breeze (the sea insisted that it was winter yet, while the grasses of the hillside said spring was come and well come,) wide green eyes delighted in the scene, his hands clapping as drums and hornpipes danced past.
Spotting a taffy stand, he remembered his true purpose. The spectacle was there to sidetrack others, not him. A street urchin all on his own couldn’t afford to be distracted from making his way in the world. There were pockets to be picked and candies to be pinched.
He jostled backwards against a woman who’d just purchased a handful of taffies, causing her to fumble them. “Sorry, ma’am.” He ducked to pick them up and handed back all but one. He slipped away before untrapping it from its leafy wrapping and popping the sticky sweet in his mouth. He smiled and picked up a fallen flower to throw back out into the street. Who said he couldn’t have just as fine a day as the king himself? [...Read More]
|
I open the trunk of my car, and pause, the carjack catching my mind.
Always be prepared, it’s said. But what sort of prepared? I was prepared for so many things. Fire. Gas leak. Tornado. Flood. Flat tire. Pink slip. Early snow. What do I mean, prepared? I thought about them, I put some protective props in place. My daughter’s suicide, now. I hadn’t thought. I hadn’t put any props in place. I touch the cold metal, sitting ready to help.Why not the flat tire, why not flooded or fired? Why never the things I’ve thought of? Why, why her? |
I’ve never forgotten my first court.
Great trees lined the avenue. Masses of golden leaves drifted down with stately grace and constancy, gilding the packed dirt. Not the crunchy sort, but the long, thin kind that die without altogether drying. Soft and quiet underfoot, not that we walked quietly. The way the sun filtered through, golden light catching golden dust motes and speckling on the rich carpet; the branches crooked to hold us; our courtiers flitting from branch to branch, musically twittering their civil disputes… It always struck me as the sort of court kings might sell their crowns for. |
The following is a short story told in ten vignettes--with each vignette exactly 100 words long.
A Telling Melody
Strains of music welled constantly within his heart, but this was a newer new.
A song, not of things seen or felt or remembered or wished, but of things to be, of one he would come to know.
Yet he knew her now, more and more, as the music unfolded her, trilling more truth than could sight and time.
It was the tune of her, and the harmony of her love for him— the love she would have, once he sang her the melody of himself.
Trusting the prophecy of his own music, the minstrel rose and ran to search.
A song, not of things seen or felt or remembered or wished, but of things to be, of one he would come to know.
Yet he knew her now, more and more, as the music unfolded her, trilling more truth than could sight and time.
It was the tune of her, and the harmony of her love for him— the love she would have, once he sang her the melody of himself.
Trusting the prophecy of his own music, the minstrel rose and ran to search.
Songlight
The lutenist’s sparkling eyes spoke only to her, played for her alone out of the crowd. He played to her of him, she knew, that she might better know.
He played of songlight, spilling sparkling from a minstrel all in blue. She heard the words ‘neath melody, the truth beyond the tune.
He played of breeze that blew him on, it drew her onward, too, and as he danced his merry way, she followed him, and knew that she would follow ever, blown by the song strumming her heartstrings, drawn by the lifelight of the man of music before her.
He played of songlight, spilling sparkling from a minstrel all in blue. She heard the words ‘neath melody, the truth beyond the tune.
He played of breeze that blew him on, it drew her onward, too, and as he danced his merry way, she followed him, and knew that she would follow ever, blown by the song strumming her heartstrings, drawn by the lifelight of the man of music before her.
Set in Sound
“I heard a song of you within my soul that called to me,
now let me play for you a song of you and us to be.”
The minstrel’s fingers freed the song, and the song lovingly trapped the girl.
Strummed strings captured all of her;
her love of peace and battle glee,
the prose within her heart,
green topped cliffs by crashing sea
and search for God within His art.
Lute song played the girl complete, spirit, flesh and mind,
and as he freed her music from his soul,
he caught the whole of the girl within his music.
now let me play for you a song of you and us to be.”
The minstrel’s fingers freed the song, and the song lovingly trapped the girl.
Strummed strings captured all of her;
her love of peace and battle glee,
the prose within her heart,
green topped cliffs by crashing sea
and search for God within His art.
Lute song played the girl complete, spirit, flesh and mind,
and as he freed her music from his soul,
he caught the whole of the girl within his music.
A Minstrel Lover
As the lutestrings stilled, the love song faded. The minstrel set his instrument on the grass, and his eyes, still bright with music, flicked up to the girl that knelt before him.
“And now the song must end, for I need my arms for you,” he said in a voice of golden bells, and drew the girl to him.
He cradled her as he had his lute; with sensual care, and pressed his mouth to hers. His slim fingers ran over her body, plucking chords that set her trembling.
As the lute sat by in silence, the love song swelled.
“And now the song must end, for I need my arms for you,” he said in a voice of golden bells, and drew the girl to him.
He cradled her as he had his lute; with sensual care, and pressed his mouth to hers. His slim fingers ran over her body, plucking chords that set her trembling.
As the lute sat by in silence, the love song swelled.
A Tip of the Hat
He flew just above the ground, his feet barely remembering to brush the surface.
“I tip my hat to nature’s law – I do not pay its tax,” he told her as he bounded through branches too thin to hold him.
He was forever being impossible. He slept too little, he danced too long. He leapt too high, floated for impossible moments against the sky, descended too lightly to the earth.
She asked how he managed to fly in the face of reality.
“The trick is to be above such trivialities as truth,” he said, with a tip of the hat.
“I tip my hat to nature’s law – I do not pay its tax,” he told her as he bounded through branches too thin to hold him.
He was forever being impossible. He slept too little, he danced too long. He leapt too high, floated for impossible moments against the sky, descended too lightly to the earth.
She asked how he managed to fly in the face of reality.
“The trick is to be above such trivialities as truth,” he said, with a tip of the hat.
Indefinitely
“How long will this go on?” in hope, in fear, she asked at last.
“Will what go on?”
Her hand closed over his. “The two of us, like this.”
“As lovers? Oh, indefinitely.”
She swallowed. No answer, then. Live and love as before, day by day, trying not to cling in fear. She loosened her hold on his hand.
“I’d say forever,” he went on, “but you’re bound to die sometime.”
He pressed her fingers to his lips, and a laugh built within her. “I suppose I must,” she said solemnly, then the laugh broke out, and she kissed him.
“Will what go on?”
Her hand closed over his. “The two of us, like this.”
“As lovers? Oh, indefinitely.”
She swallowed. No answer, then. Live and love as before, day by day, trying not to cling in fear. She loosened her hold on his hand.
“I’d say forever,” he went on, “but you’re bound to die sometime.”
He pressed her fingers to his lips, and a laugh built within her. “I suppose I must,” she said solemnly, then the laugh broke out, and she kissed him.
Naught but the Greatest
He wondered at her eyes on him, at the foreign quality of her gaze.
“What do you see, when you look at me?” the minstrel asked,
strumming a counterpoint to his words.
She smiled. “You.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Me? Most look at me and seem to see…”
“Naught but the greatest musician in all the lands?” she suggested,
lips twitching.
“No, naught more.”
His cheeky tone snagged on the hurt in his eyes.
“You are far more,” she whispered.
“Of course – I’m just glad somebody else finally sees it!”
His cheeky tone caught on the softness of his smile.
“What do you see, when you look at me?” the minstrel asked,
strumming a counterpoint to his words.
She smiled. “You.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Me? Most look at me and seem to see…”
“Naught but the greatest musician in all the lands?” she suggested,
lips twitching.
“No, naught more.”
His cheeky tone snagged on the hurt in his eyes.
“You are far more,” she whispered.
“Of course – I’m just glad somebody else finally sees it!”
His cheeky tone caught on the softness of his smile.
Always Fine
He must be more than man, she thought. His voice alone gave evidence; more fitting of sunbirds and divine courtyards than of minstrel man walking common earth.
And more; his age, his youth—how many years had he walked this common earth, and still so fresh of face?
“You’ll outlive me, shan’t you?”
“In all likelihood. It happens,” he said lightly in his flaming lilt.
“To you?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re fine?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll be fine…?”
“Of course. I’m always fine,” he said, face flashing with sorrow as he pulled his lute from his back and played a cheerful tune.
And more; his age, his youth—how many years had he walked this common earth, and still so fresh of face?
“You’ll outlive me, shan’t you?”
“In all likelihood. It happens,” he said lightly in his flaming lilt.
“To you?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re fine?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll be fine…?”
“Of course. I’m always fine,” he said, face flashing with sorrow as he pulled his lute from his back and played a cheerful tune.
Truths Best Forgotten
He wondered at her stunned and pale face when she returned from the healer’s.
“Pregnant?” he guessed, knowing she didn’t wish to be.
“Not more life; less,” she whispered. “I’m dying, love.”
His heart grew suddenly cold, though he kept his face smooth. “Isn’t everyone?”
“In weeks, love.”
It wasn’t fair. She was yet young. If she were to die, it ought to be on adventure’s height, not from withering sickness.
“Let’s have weeks of adventure, then,” he spoke gaily, trying to shake off despair’s sticky fingers. “And no more talk of death, dearest. There are some truths best forgotten.”
“Pregnant?” he guessed, knowing she didn’t wish to be.
“Not more life; less,” she whispered. “I’m dying, love.”
His heart grew suddenly cold, though he kept his face smooth. “Isn’t everyone?”
“In weeks, love.”
It wasn’t fair. She was yet young. If she were to die, it ought to be on adventure’s height, not from withering sickness.
“Let’s have weeks of adventure, then,” he spoke gaily, trying to shake off despair’s sticky fingers. “And no more talk of death, dearest. There are some truths best forgotten.”
A Mortal Lover
She looked so tired. Had he kept her up too late? She must say if he did. She burst into tears, then, and he knew.
Very tired. I know. Come here, love. Hush. You’re only human, it’s natural that you should feel tired. I know. You need to rest.
Sobbing, she begged a song and a kiss, and he gave her both. Shh. Shh.
She was sorry she couldn’t—couldn’t stop crying, she was trying--
It’s alright. Shh. It’s alright, my love. Everything will be fine.
Sobs faded into silence.
Better?
Silence.
D-dear one?
Silence.
And his aching heart broke.
Very tired. I know. Come here, love. Hush. You’re only human, it’s natural that you should feel tired. I know. You need to rest.
Sobbing, she begged a song and a kiss, and he gave her both. Shh. Shh.
She was sorry she couldn’t—couldn’t stop crying, she was trying--
It’s alright. Shh. It’s alright, my love. Everything will be fine.
Sobs faded into silence.
Better?
Silence.
D-dear one?
Silence.
And his aching heart broke.
