The bluebird chirps of love tonight
As two form one in close embrace.
Love’s power strains beyond all might
To ease the ache of life’s hard race.
Vain words of hope he breathes this hour;
She sobs the more as daybreak comes.
A tyrant grasps them in his power,
And death will make them all succumb.
Hadassah wept, so Haman dies—
A consequence of God-heard prayer.
Yet no redeemer will arise
To save the sons of Isaac’s heir.
The couple clings for one last time.
Cold Auschwitz’s darkness lurks in sight
As now approach death’s gas and lime.
The bird’s song dies with dawn’s first light.

Every morning she arises to a routine feeling of despair. She picks up a pen to begin to write, attempting to cleanse her mind of self-deprecating thoughts that bite. She puts on a black t-shirt to match her mood, and applies mascara called “blackout” to accent her mysterious eyes through which she regularly broods. She goes to drink a cup of black coffee to experience a euphoric high, but crashes to a hampering low, as the day goes by.

She gets a cigarette to add to the blackening of her lungs.

When she arrives at school and talks to someone new, her hazel eyes become eclipsed by dilation, comparable to her first drug experimentation. After inevitable rejection, she resigns to a dark place when she feels like nobody cares. She always feels in the dark when confused about her affairs– mostly because she refuses to see the bigger picture, or perhaps is just hindered by daunting bouts of depression that cloud up her mind like a pre-storm sky in winter.

When she steps outside to view a magnificent sky, the earth is splendidly bright, but she can’t seem to relish and take flight. The sunset is breathtakingly beautiful, yet all her somber mind allows her to sight is the subsidence of light, and an array of fading colors against a horizon that she will never reach. This sense of emptiness runs deep– day-in and day-out through which she stares down the abyss in her yearning heart that pleads, “let me out!”

When night falls into a starry evening and she falls back asleep, she closes her eyes and still can’t see. Black is dismal like me.

Sometimes I question myself
When I begin to do things, I never done before
Is this maturity, am I bettering myself
Or is this post teen peer pressure where I following a flock
Who are you?
Sometimes you have to ask
Because people have motives
What are yours?
Is it to close every door left open by our ancestors?
Or, is it to break the frame
So that more people can have the opportunity to break free
From self arresting chains
Don’t confuse it, if you don’t use it you definitely lose it
So when will you change
From using words for gossip to creating beautiful stories
Filled with your soul and provide it
To other people as a real life object or testament
Of fall down, get back up, keep trying
Now tell me, who are you?
Are you the pen that continue to poison our history
With ignorance, disloyalty and murder
Or were you just the instrument of crime to put us down further
Well, now is the your time to stand for something
Other then your own selfish needs of fulfillment
You can become the pen that will one day write our future
Therefore, today I ask who are you?

Butterflies, goose bumps, even chills,
When I’m with you that’s how I feel.
Holding you tight oh so close,
Being a part of your life is what I love the most.
My eyes sparkle, my face glows,
How much you mean to me you’ll never know.
I love being a part of your world,
Everyday I feel like the luckiest girl.
You’re my man, my best friend,
The bond we have is impossible to end.
Deep thoughts, secrets told,
Sharing these feelings will never get old.
Being apart for a day feels like years,
You have helped me overcome my fears.
I love you like there’s no tomorrow,
Where ever you go I’ll follow.
You’re my soul mate, my better half,
You always know how to make me laugh.
Each fight made us who we are today,
The bond is stronger now nothing can stand in our way.
Thank you for loving me and everything you do,
But mostly thank you for being you.

Metal pieces,
The ocean breeze,
An open door,
As if to say, “Hello.”
The blood of man.
Stood up there,
And through his lips spoke to the world,
But throught the world is where his words now lay scatered.
Time passes by,
An old man died,
But not soon to be forgotten.
For in this man,
There was no fear,
To take a stand and to be heard.

Sickness is a sad thing,
Watching the color fade from your face,
Wondering how your yesterdays are,
Did you live it to the fullest,
Or was it just a mistake, regret, or nothing at all,
It could be today,
It could be tomorrow,
I’m not looking for the sorrow,
But if there never comes a tomorrow,
I want you to be satisfied with the life you lived,
Even though you still hold so much life,
It’s slowly slipping from you,
Somewhere out there, there is more to life for you,
Even though I prepare myself,
I’ll never be ready,
I got one brother and preparation will never be enough for that day,
Although words go unspoken amongst us,
I hope you know that there is a plan for you,
And if it be that you go before you want to,
You’ll forever hold a place in my heart,
The memories left will keep us connected,
And the life you left here will know your legacy.

To move without effort
Elegance, ease
Wind tossed and light
Sweet spray of the sea
Perfect or poor
To wait? To leave?
Decide; abide
With a quivering lip
As the blue ocean sighs

I didn’t know where I was when I woke up. I was aware of a pressing sensation on my chest, but couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. I tried to look around and realized my field of vision was limited to the area directly in front of me. I couldn’t move my arms or legs, or even swivel my head from side to side. I heard voices speaking frantically, but it was as if they were off at a long distance, as if they were at least a football field away. Other than the slight pressure on my upper body, I had no sensation or feeling whatsoever, other than a kind of heaviness I figured was just my brain coping with the paralysis I seemed to be experiencing.

I could see an open expanse of sky so I assumed I was lying prone outside of my car. I thought back as far as I could remember, but for the moment was just drawing a blank. Suddenly, the hazy form of a woman flashed into my view, moving just as quickly out of my range of sight as she had entered. Waiting patiently, I saw her hover in my line of vision once more, flashing a penlight into both of my eyes. At the time I didn’t think about why that bright flash of light didn’t blind me or cause me to blink, but I would later come to know why.

Searching through my vast knowledge of medicine, I tried to conjure up the specific types of disorders that might cause the condition I was experiencing at the moment. I immediately ruled out glaucoma and migraine as reasons for the peripheral vision loss. That left about ten or twelve other diseases and conditions as the cause due to the fact that I never before suffered from migraines and the stage of glaucoma at which such vision is lost is such an advanced stage, it would not have happened so immediately. I also ruled out the more rare eye diseases such as retinoschisis and retinal degeneration as those too would have taken too long a time to develop. Most of the other possibilities, such as Usher Syndrome or CAR Syndrome, would not quite explain the other symptoms that were occurring. Thinking back hard on my early medical training at the University of Texas, I decided I must have suffered a stroke. It would explain the heavy feeling in my body (although usually affecting mostly the side of the body, I was grasping at this point), the loss of vision, the loss of hearing, and possibly even the paralysis. Deciding I would rather settle on stroke than the dreaded ‘brain tumor’, I was helpless to do anything besides wait for aid at the hands of the woman whom I was now watching. She was shaking her head at something over her left shoulder. I knew that was not a good sign.

The woman moved again from my field of sight and I saw the sky before above me jerk a bit. Realizing I was probably being lifted onto a stretcher, I searched my brain for any memory that I could find of what events had recently transpired prior to my current semi-comatose state. I looked deeper and deeper into my mind and began to get a clearer picture of what probably had happened.

I had been on my way home from work at the clinic. I remembered waiting patiently for the stoplight at Anderson Mill Rd. to turn green and then proceeding through the intersection in my mind’s eye. I recalled glancing to my left and seeing the headlights of a white Hummer racing towards me. As if in slow motion, I realized I would not make it through the intersection in time and braced myself for the imminent impact. The final memory I could bring forth was the feeling of my heading snapping to the right as I was struck on my driver’s side door by the speeding vehicle.

My sky view soon was traded for the dull interior of an ambulance. I knew the dull throbs I could hear pulsating in the distance must be the warning siren of the rescue vehicle, but it sounded as if it was coming from another side of a long tunnel. I wondered how bad of shape I was in and when the paralysis would wear off, if ever. Hoping for the best, I saw rather than felt the ambulance grind to a halt as IV’s and other medical equipment in the cab shifted and jerked spasmodically. I could tell I was being lifted again and rolled quickly down a long corridor. I silently prayed, although I had never done so before, to whatever God might be listening to guide the surgeon’s hands as they put me back together.

My gurney was finally pushed into a dimly lit corridor after a short ride in what I was sure was an elevator. I wondered which local hospital I had been taken to, Seton Shoal Creek probably, as it was the closest. I had never been inside Seton before and didn’t recognize the area now as I lay awake, wondering what was to become of me and whether I would be given intravenous anesthesia or a local one, depending on just what my injuries were. I knew that the most important thing the doctor’s needed to do right now was deal with any internal injuries and blood loss. My temporary paralysis could wait.

I lay on the stretcher for what seemed like hours and had already grown quite confused by the time I finally saw an elderly gentleman lean over me. I thought that he had possibly already been operating on my distraught body the entire time I had been laying and thinking, I just hadn’t been able to see him due to the loss of my side vision. However, I knew he should have had a small medical staff assisting him throughout the process and couldn’t figure out why I had not seen any of them sliding in and out of my view. I wondered if I had even passed out and not realized it, but soon put that thought to rest as I realized I had been slowly counting, waiting for the sleep inducing drugs to work their magic. They strangely never did lull me to unconsciousness and I now began wondering if I might be comatose and dreaming everything that had been and was now transpiring. I again ruled this scenario out due to the fact that everything felt so real. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined any events as vividly as what I was witnessing now. Besides, if this had all been a dream, parts of it would have appeared jagged and disjointed as all dreams do.

I again saw myself being moved (I say saw because I could still feel nothing other than the ‘heaviness’ I have described to you earlier). Soon, all I was looking at was the briefest glimpse of steel mere inches away from my faces. Then all light left me and I stared into utter darkness.

I knew I was not unconscious because I could see minute flecks of dirt and other matter before me as my vision adjusted to the blackness that surrounded me completely. Panic began to set in. I knew after a few short moments of confusion that I the dimly lit room I had occupied only moments before was not an operating room, or even and ICU unit. It had no doubt been the Seton Shoal Creek morgue. I had been presumed dead and was now to spend my probably last remaining moments on this earth mistakenly locked inside a tiny refrigerated compartment until my wife claimed my body and funeral preparations began. I knew at that time it would be nearly impossible to tell when I had actually died as the cooling box I now occupied would delay decomposition for some time. I could possibly lay awake in the steel cubicle for hours or even days before I finally succumbed to the death sentence that had been passed on to me by incompetent EMT’s. I vowed right then to find that woman who had given up on my limp body so carelessly and haunt her in my afterlife, whatever kind of afterlife was in store for me. As a self-proclaimed agnostic, I had never believed in much of anything other than the medicine I had so put my faith in for all forty-three years of my short life. I realized with horror that such faith had failed me at the most crucial moment. I was surely suffering from some form of inanimate suspension, such as the death-like coma caused by a toxin given off from the puffer fish. Since I knew I had not partaken of any exotic seafood dishes as of late, I could not figure out what exactly had happened, so I instead laid the entirety of the blame of my situation upon the clearly poor trained technicians who must have shown up at the scene of my car accident. I berated the fools over and over in my head for quite some time. I could not help but wonder how I could have been so careless as to be taken unawares by the Hummer in the first place. I wondered what fortune must I have had to be attended to by the world’s two stupidest emergency personnel. What other poor souls had received this same malpractice at their hands? How many more would senselessly die? Would I be the first to somehow finally escape the grasp of death by the skin of my teeth and put an end to the suffering no doubt caused by the lazy offenders? Or would some other poor soul, completely unaware of my plight, suffer the same fate and miraculously awaken in their cold compartment and begin banging on the ceiling and walls of their confine, screaming for relief, begging for assistance and removal from the claustrophobic conditions? I could only wish the medical examiner who finds such a person would not be frightened into a heart attack, thus leaving the poor wretch to continue on to his or her untimely death with no help of rescue.

I lay in that steely box thinking such thoughts as these for what felt like hours. I had no way of telling how much time had passed. Although I heard my wristwatch ticking away unerringly somewhere far off, I was helpless to even simply raise my arm to look at it. Truly, even if my comatose condition had worn off and I had regained the use of my limbs, the tiny chamber in which I was now nestled would not have allowed for the slightest free movement of any sort. When my paralysis passed (and I hoped against all hope it would), I would have to scream and use my head and feet to pound on the interior walls of the cold box in what might be a vain attempt to arouse the notice of an attendant, if one was even still in the vicinity of the autopsy area.

For some unknown reason (although more than likely it was denial), I chose not to think about why I was still alive after spending so much time inside the refrigerated box. I knew there could not have been much oxygen in the miniscule room I was allotted. I at long length allowed my mind to rest on this matter, as if grasping onto a focal point instead of allowing my mind to wander might possibly salvage my sanity, which was already beginning to teeter on the brink of no return. I found myself making arguments about my state of existence, holding complete conversations with my inner voice (perhaps I had already passed the aforementioned brink, but best not to dwell on that).

“How could I possibly still be alive? How am I breathing? “

“The coma state you are in must have slowed down your heartbeat, thus making it possible to slow down your respiration to an infinitesimal amount, which has allowed you to live longer off of less oxygen intake simply because your body does not require a normal amount at this time. Consider it suspended animation.”

“Suspended animation. Hmmmm, if I could market this to NASA somehow I could make millions!”

“You would have to get out of here first. What good is money to a dead man?”

“But what exactly caused this state for me? Was I injected with some sort of experimental drug by the EMT? Are they in fact using me, as they have possibly used others before me, to test this new drug out? Will they return to the morgue in the middle of the night to secretly remove my body and test the effects of this drug? Can I pray for relief at that time?”

“I wouldn’t get my hopes up, buddy. Best to expect the worst and hope for the best in my opinion.”
I assumed nothing at this point of my incarceration of both my body and my mind within my body. Even as far-fetched as the ‘illegal drug experiment conspiracy’ seemed, it was certainly better than facing the alternative silence I knew was awaiting me during every break in my interior discussions. I again commented (to myself of course) on the slight feeling of pressure that was the only sense I could feel. At some point in time I heard, off in the distance, a rapid squeaking noise, and momentarily shuddered inwardly at the thought of mice. Mice in a morgue box! And I had always thought Seton such a fine hospital!

I came to realize I could distinguish colors again and knew instantly that the squeaking I had just heard was not in fact rodents, but was the sound of the drawer door opening. I prayed that my moment of rescue had finally arrived. I wondered if the two criminals who had surely induced this state on my body had finally been found out and captured. Might they have shown some temporary remorse at their actions and enlightened officials to my condition? Was I now to be revived fully to a healthy state?

I saw readily that unfortunately this was not to be. I was again moved, that much I could tell. Back into the dimly lit room and again waiting in anticipation for whatever would come next. I looked and waited and watched directly above me as hard as I could. The lighting was soon amplified and I realized I was staring up into a set of fluorescent tubes. Every once in a while, the elderly man (who I correctly took for the ME) would come into focus for brief moments, only to sway out of sight again, then return some moments later. This went on for quite some time. I don’t know how long it took me to realize what was happening. When I did, the last tiny fiber that had been holding my sanity intact finally snapped completely and irreparably.

He was performing an autopsy. On me.

I knew I had been in a car accident, but I hadn’t been drinking, there was no reason for this! A thousand thoughts flew through my mind and no matter how hard I tried to silence them and pull myself together to work towards creating some sign of life for the morgue practitioner, I could not keep my brain focused on any one thought in particular. I began willing my finger to move, willing my chest to rise, even minutely, searching for any sign of surprise in the ME’s eyes.

“I am not a cadaver!!!!! Look at me!!!!! Look at me breathing!!!! Look at my EYES!!!!!,” I screamed silently. “Please, for God’s sake, DON’T DO THIS!!!!! STOP AT ONCE!!!!!”

It was pointless. The man continued his grim work completely unaware of me. I remained conscious throughout the entire ordeal. I wondered how I could still be alive once he finally stood back and stripped the latex gloves off of his hands. I knew that if an autopsy had indeed been performed, my organs would have been removed. How could I now be possibly still alive?

And then I realized this: I was not. I had not been since the first time I had awoken from the accident. It was the only thing that made sense. It explained all of my symptoms. It explained why two well trained emergency technicians and a Morgue Examiner had not been able to sense the life flowing in me. There no longer was any life flowing in me. I was now locked with my thoughts, and my thoughts only, inside of a fleshy shell that would soon begin to deteriorate. I was locked with my own thoughts for perhaps all of eternity.

I somehow managed to make it through the entire embalming process without losing my mind completely and turning into a complete lunatic. I noticed with some pride that I was not singing songs to myself over and over again, or even ranting any longer. It was as if a sense of peace had come over my mind, not necessarily replacing the feeling of weight I had felt earlier, but instead I came to the realization that that was exactly what the pressure had been the entire time. It was my own mind battling against the calm that death had brought already to my body. My mind had refused this calm, up until the moment it was utterly impossible to deny the facts any longer. After finally accepting my fate, I began to steadily grow more and more serene.

The memorial service was quite lovely, or at least what I could make out of it seemed so. I recognized many faces leaning over my coffin and counted at least two hundred mourners in attendance. I never knew I had been so well regarded by so many of my colleagues and family.

As I now lay entombed in utter silence, I find myself thinking on why I never discussed with my wife the possibility of cremation prior to my passing. I lay in a vat of utter darkness save for the occasional worm or spider creeping over my line of vision. I know that my left eye has now been eaten away as my sight has faltered to a two-dimensional stare, and I am sure the right is soon to follow. I can’t help but wonder if this is the Hell I have been condemned to suffer due to my lack of belief in God. I have had many years to wonder about this and have begun in the most recent times to accept that possibly I lived my life in error. I know now that I am at least not alone in my doom – some time back I heard distant thuds surrounding me and rested in the knowledge that my wife has finally joined me and more than likely now occupies the plot next door. I wonder whether my neighbors to the left, above, and below me are also sharing my fate. I have time now to ponder such thoughts and pray fervently to God that eternity comes with swiftness.

Kaylee grasped her mother’s hand as they made their way up the icy stone walkway. Snow covered the edge of the path where flowers usually blossomed during the spring. She watched her step so as not to fall and ruin her new pink puffy coat. It was her first Christmas present of the year from her parents. Even though Christmas Eve wasn’t until tomorrow night, the frigid weather allowed for Kaylee to receive her coat a few days early.

While one gloved hand clung desperately to her mother, the other held just as tightly onto Bunny. Bunny went everywhere with Kaylee since she was two. The stuffed rabbit’s ears were tattered from months of teething, and his yellow coloring faded from hundreds of journeys through the washing machine. Kaylee held him by the ears and raised her arm just high enough to keep his fluffy bottom from dragging on the cold, wet ground.

After making her way up the front steps, Kaylee turned around to watch her father carry their bags. Her Hello Kitty duffle bag stood out against her parents’ gray luggage. She wondered why grownups chose such boring colors.

Kaylee spun around at the sound of the front door opening. Her grandmother’s face had her usual smile stretching from ear to ear. Kaylee loved her grandmother’s smile. It was always sincere and her teeth were the brightest shade of white.

“Hi, dearies,” she exclaimed as she stepped aside to let her children enter the warm house. The smell of apple pie and sweet potatoes filled Kaylee’s nostrils the instant she crossed the threshold. Holiday spirit was palpable in her grandparents’ house.

As her grandmother leaned down to take off her coat, Kaylee’s grip on Bunny remained firm.

“What a beautiful coat, Kaylee,” Grandma said. “Where did you get it?”

“Mommy and Daddy gave it to me for Christmas,” she replied softly. The sounds of chatter coming from the other room kept Kaylee glued to her spot in the foyer. It usually took her a while to ease out of her shyness.

“A new coat for Christmas!” Kaylee jumped at the bellowing voice of her grandfather. “What a lucky girl, getting her presents early.” He scooped her up in a big bear hug and planted a kiss on her that smushed her cheeks together. “Want to go say hi to everyone?”

Before she could say no, she was being carried into the next room. The sight of so many people caused Kaylee to bury her face in her grandfather’s sweater.

“Aw, look who’s being shy,” sang her aunt’s familiar birdlike voice. Kaylee felt long, fake nails tickle her neck. She shrugged her shoulders to protect her neck from the invading fingers. “I have something you, sweetie.” Kaylee peeked out from her grandfather’s shoulder and saw a Hershey Kiss in her aunt’s outstretched hand. She reached out her tiny hand to grab the candy, but before she could claim it, her aunt’s fingers closed around it. “First and hug, then you get the kiss.”

Kaylee hesitated, but the thought of chocolate helped her conquer her bashfulness. She held out her arms, Bunny still dangling from her right hand, and wrapped them around her aunt’s neck. She was embraced in another bear hug and received a glossy kiss on her cheek before being set down. As soon as she had her chocolate, Kaylee turned and ventured further into the crowded room. She didn’t make eye contact with anyone, and her answers to everyone’s questions were short.

“How are you?” “Good.”
“Who’s in your hand?” “Bunny.”
“How old are you?” “Five.”
“Are you excited for Santa?” “Yes.”

Kaylee finally found her way to the other side of the room. She sat in her little seat positioned next to the Christmas tree. From here she could observe her bustling relatives catching up after being separated for months by hundreds of miles. Kaylee enjoyed watching people and listening in on their conversations. Especially when she was the topic of the conversations. People often made comments about her thinking she couldn’t hear them.

“She’s gotten so big!”
“She has her father’s nose.”
“And her mother’s brown hair.”
“But where did the curls come from?”
“She’s too skinny.”

As Kaylee sat listening to the grownups around her, a loud greeting was heard in the foyer. She wondered who had arrived that warranted such an uproarious welcome. Her mother walked into the room and announced that Granddad had arrived.

Kaylee stiffened in her seat. She knew that her mother’s grandfather was her Great Grandfather Henry. Before anyone noticed her moving, Kaylee escaped out of the other door in the room and into the kitchen, dragging Bunny on the floor behind her. Her heart pounded with fear when she though of Great Grandpa Henry. His frail ninety-five year old frame crept slowly forward with the support of his cane as his third leg. His tired face seemed to have permanently wrinkled up into a frown. His eyes were sunken in and gloomy. Kaylee was sure she would turn to stone whenever she looked into the two pits of darkness on his face.

When dinnertime came around, Kaylee was relieved to be placed between her parents. Great Grandpa Henry, as the oldest member of the family, was perched at the head of the long table. His food was served to him while everyone else served themselves. He barely spoke—just gave slight nods when her mother or aunt pointed to the various serving plates. His movements were slow and stiff. It often pained Kaylee to watch him exert any kind of energy.

When he chewed his food, his jaw moved just as slowly as the rest of his body. His teeth always looked like they were going to fall out. Everything about him frightened Kaylee. While everyone else treated him with love and respect, Kaylee did her best to hide from him. She saw her great grandfather as a scary monster, slinking slowly through the hallways, making creepy wheezing sounds when he breathed, walking hunched over like he was preparing to attack any little creature that got in his way. To Kaylee, there was nothing great or grand or fatherly about Henry.

By nine o’clock, Kaylee had made it through the evening of staring and coddling from her aunts and uncles and was tucked into bed. Her father gave her a kiss on the forehead.

“Can you tell me a story?” asked Kaylee as her father stood up.

“Not tonight, sweetie. I’m gonna go talk with people downstairs. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen everyone.”

“Please,” implored Kaylee with a pleading look in her eyes. Kaylee always took advantage of her father’s weakness for her big brown eyes.

“Sorry, but not tonight. I’ll tell you two tomorrow night. How does that sound?”

Kaylee hesitated before accepting the offer. Her father left her alone in the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. She closed her eyes after making sure Bunny was securely at her side.

She was just about the drift off to sleep when she hear footsteps in the hallway. Her excitement grew as she expected her father to come back and tell her a story after all. But just as quickly as her excitement grew, it dissipated when she realized the footsteps didn’t belong to her father. They sounded much too slow, and if she wasn’t mistaken, the person had three feet instead of two.

Before she could figure out who was coming, a shadow filled the crack in the door. Kaylee sat up and clutched Bunny to her chest. A slight creek sounded as the door slowly opened. As the crack in the door widened, so did Kaylee’s eyes. Her pulse quickened and her skin went cold as Great Grandpa Henry took shape in the door frame.

When the door was completely open, Henry slowly made his way into the room. Time seemed to slow down as he made his way towards her bed. Kaylee sat perfectly still, too afraid to move. Bunny was locked in a death grip between Kaylee’s arms, chest and chin. After seconds that felt like hours, Henry hovered over the bed leaning heavily on his cane. His sunken eyes stared down at her like two pieces of coal. And then, just when she thought he couldn’t inch any closer, his free hand reached out to her, wrinkled and trembling.

Kaylee ducked her head as far as she could, but the hand continued to creep towards her. She shuddered when she felt Henry’s cool skin brush past her cheek and reach behind her ear. Kaylee’s mouth opened slightly and a whimpering sound escaped her lips. The whimper was about to turn into a scream when the hand returned from behind her ear. Kaylee’s anxiety turned to amazement when Great Grandpa Henry held a shiny quarter in front of her eyes. Her hand shot up to her ear and her mouth dropped open.

Henry smiled. “I saw something shiny behind your ear during dinner.” He held the quarter out to her. After a slight hesitation, Kaylee reached out and accepted the gift. “Do you like bedtime stories?” he asked softly.

Kaylee couldn’t hide her excitement as her eyes lit up. “Yes,” she replied meekly and leaned back against her pillow.

Henry turned around and sat on the side of the bed. Kaylee bent her legs to give the elderly man more room.

“Once upon a time, in a land across the sea, there lived a young magician known far and wide. Audiences traveled hundreds of miles to see Haunting Henry perform his legendary disappearing acts. His fame allowed him to travel to many countries, including America where he eventually met his future wife.”

Kaylee listened with fascination as her great grandfather detailed his journey from being a young boy with a desire to be different and amazing to an internationally acclaimed illusionist.

By the time the story came to an end, Kaylee was sitting on the edge of her bed looking up at Great Grandpa Henry with curiosity. Henry noticed her questioning gaze and smiled.

“Is there anything you want to know?” he asked as he put his arm around her lovingly.

Kaylee stared down at her palm where the quarter still rested. “When did you learn the quarter trick?”

“When I was five years old,” he whispered.

“Like me?” Kaylee responded excitedly.

“Like you.” Henry leaned over and gave Kaylee a kiss on the cheek. Then, with the support of the nightstand and his third leg, he rose and began his slow journey out of the room. As he reached the door, Kaylee sat up quickly.

“Great Grandpa?”

“Yes, dear?”

“What was the best magic you ever did?”

“My family.” His response came without hesitation. “I created my family.”

You can find more of Rebecca’s work at: http://rebeccalaskowitz.blogspot.com/

There wasn’t much time left. Philip knew this. The entire village knew as well. What did they have? Hours? Very unlikely. More like minutes. Minutes that flew by with increasing speed as the enemy drew closer.

Philip looked at all they had accomplished. The walls were high and foreboding, but size was not enough to prevent annihilation. Strength was the key factor to guard against the great enemy, and Philip prayed to the gods that the fortress held strength.

The villages that had once stood here obviously lacked the strength needed to keep the enemy out. How many fortresses—great fortresses built with the blood and sweat of great men—had stood here before today only to be wiped away by one pass of the great enemy? There must have been hundreds, maybe even thousands, of towns that have been destroyed. Completely and utterly erased from the map.

There was no way for anyone to ever know the number of villages that had once stood here. The great enemy never left any traces of the civilizations it destroyed. There were no artifacts to be uncovered or histories to be remembered. It was as if they never existed and the great enemy was all there ever was.

But Philip knew better. He understood his village was not the first to face the great enemy, yet he prayed it would be the last. If he could defeat the great enemy, all other nations would bow down to him. They would come to him for protection, for wisdom, and for alliance. He would gain the respect of all the world’s leaders. If he ever needed anything from anyone from anywhere, he would have no questions to answer. The thought was enough to make his chest puff up and his lips to form a triumphant grin.

Philip’s smile disintegrated instantly, however, when a thundering crash jolted him back to reality. The enemy was approaching faster than he had anticipated and the odds of his victory were extremely low. His workers scrambled to finish the fortress to be used as protection from the oncoming attack.

Most of his people looked as terrified as he felt. He would never show his fear on the outside, however. He was, after all, their leader. Nothing could break the spirits of a civilization quicker than a leader admitting to fear and doubt.

Nonetheless, a fear was present in his heart that Philip could not squander. He looked at the structure being built for his village’s protection and only saw towers that would crumple like paper, gates that would be knocked down with one swift blow, and walls that would surrender after one wave of attack.

The sound of the thunder grew louder letting all know the great enemy was advancing. Within a few minutes, the strength of the fortress would be tested. If it didn’t survive the first wave, there was very little chance of it standing the second and third. The great enemy was very persistent and would not stop sending wave after wave of destruction until the village was no more.

As Philip focused on the sounds of onslaught, his gaze drifted to the sky. Several birds swarmed overhead, making circles around the highest towers. They showed no fear when they flew close to the fortress and then up to the sky again, as if taunting his workers. The birds were spies of the great enemy and hinted that the attack would begin any second.

Then, as if confirming his fear, one of the birds dropped a missile. A single missile fell from the sky in a direct path toward the highest tower. There was nothing Philip could do but watch. Upon being hit, the tower fell flat to the ground. It was as if a giant stepped on top of it in an angry rage.

“No!” yelled Philip, realizing his fortress would never stand against the great enemy.

“Philip!” came an even more powerful voice. Philip looked up into the eyes of a woman who seemed startled by his outburst.

“Sorry, mom,” he said as he plopped down on the sand.

“I think you’ve had enough sun for today,” his mother said. “And it looks like the tide is coming in.”

Philip and his mother packed up their belongings and trudged up the beach. Philip risked one final glance back as the first wave of the great enemy washed over his fortress.

You can find more of Rebecca’s work at: http://rebeccalaskowitz.blogspot.com/

To most people it was just another Monday, but this wasn’t the case for a selected few. The day started like any other for Mike Johnson. Mike would wake up, organize his attire for the day on his bed in a very civil manner, jump in the shower, get dressed, and head downstairs to read the paper over an oversized cup of coffee. Mike was glancing through the pages before approaching an article that seemed oddly familiar. The caption read “Five Car Pileup Leads to the Death of a Police Officer.” The reason why this article seemed so familiar to Mike was because Mike happened to pass by this ghastly scene as it occurred the night prior on the way home from the office, but was stricken with fear, that he impulsively continued en route.

Mike had noticed that the accident was pretty severe from his rearview mirror. At the bottom of the article it stated, any witnesses please make yourself present at the Mulberry Courthouse on Monday, May 31st at 3:30 P.M. Mike was frightened at first, but felt that it was necessary for him to attend. Mike went into the office like usual at 8:30, and informed his boss that he would have to leave early to attend a court case. Mike’s boss asked him “Did you know anyone in the accident?” And Mike replied “Yeah, something like that.” The day dragged on, and Mike grew anxiously nervous to appear at the courtroom. By the time 3:00 hit, he bolted for the door and made his way to the Mulberry courthouse. Upon entering the large stony building, in the waiting room he noticed a few people sitting. Judge Dibiase walked by and gave a solemn “hello” to Mike, in which Mike replied “hiya” nervously. Mike somewhat knew Judge Dibiase because Mike happened to be an attorney that had dealt with him in the past. A real stickler Mike viewed Judge Dibiase as being. Mike then introduced himself to the few people who were seated outside of the courtroom. The group of people held a mix of occupations. There was a physician, a teacher, a professor, and a nurse. Mike had asked why they were all present, and they all stated that they were involved in the accident. The physician then decided to ask Mike “Why are you here? You weren’t involved in the accident?” This question caught Mike completely off guard, in which he awkwardly responded, “I knew the police officer he had died at the scene.” The physician then immediately apologized.

After about a fifteen-minute wait, the group of people entered the courtroom, and Mike just took a seat behind them to listen in. The session lasted about a half hour, and the cause of the accident remained inconclusive. For some reason, the police officer plowed into the back of another vehicle on the highway, causing a pileup. After exiting the courtroom, Mike followed the group listening on their conversation. All everyone kept say was “I just don’t understand how this could have happened. Why didn’t he just stop?” As the group of people each individually made their ways to their vehicles, Mike then relaxingly lit up a cigarette and thought to himself, “I got away with it. Amazing.”

George woke up that morning with a splitting headache and found himself in a whirlwind of confusion. He rubbed his eyes and seemed to glare back at the sunlight pouring through the shutters. George hated the sunlight and almost everything else that morning entailed. He flopped out of bed, put on a worn out blue robe and tied it around his sagging midsection. After his wife died he had promised himself that he would work on his appearance, but the thought of actual work made him queasy. He went to the mirror and frowned at the wrinkles around his eyes and meticulously tried to rub them away with his finger. It didn’t work, of course, and his face continued to hang there lifelessly.

The chirping of the morning birds woke him from his trance and his bottled up anger started to boil within his body. Those damn birds, he thought. I hate them. Not everyone in the world likes to hear the sweet chirping of birds in the morning. His face reddened in anger at the sound of their perfect melodies and he turned to throw a shoe at the open window. George’s hand quickly fell toward the ground, his eyes opening wide in fear as he caught the glimpse of a shadow out of the corner of his eye. The shadows quickly gathered in the room, pushing the older man to a corner where he shook in fear. He remembered his walk by the park the night before and the fun he had throwing pennies into a fountain with a little boy. The boy told him to make a wish, but the man didn’t listen and upset the woman spirit that lived within the statue of the fountain. The boy grew very upset with him and viciously pointed his finger at the old man, threatening him.

“You didn’t make a wish? Why would you do that?” the boy questioned.

“Son, it’s just pretend. This isn’t real and she isn’t real,” George said as he pointed to the lifeless statue.

“Just wait! You’ll see!” the boy shouted as he ran down the street. “She’ll make you pay for not believin’ in her!”
George’s mind fluttered back to his bedroom that had been taken over by spirits and he quickly panicked. He started throwing all his dirty laundry at the shadows, but this made them only grow in numbers. The spirits screeched at the man and clawed at the light that was within the room. This was their Hell and they wanted back into their darkness. A sound echoed within the room, like the call of their leader, and the ghosts retreated back to their world. George sighed with relief. They were gone.

He thought about the words from the little boy and decided to venture back to the fountain in the park. The sun disappeared and darkness filled the sky; not from the clouds, but from the demons that now appeared. He couldn’t escape them and grew frightened from this new world that the spirit had cursed him with. He ran in terror passed ghosts and monsters and demons hiding in the alleys. The werewolves howled at the moonlight and licked their sharp fangs that desired the rip of flesh and taste of blood. They ran after him and he could feel their hot breath upon his neck. Closer and closer they pursued him, but soon vanished as he came upon the fountain in the middle of the park. George leaned against the statue as he tried to catch his breath. The water in the bottom of the fountain was turning green and smelled stale with age. Her paint was chipping and she no longer held the luster that she had so many years ago. He tried to forget about the demons that surrounded his life and held the statue that night as if she was real. He was alone and the statue was the only thing that seemed real to him. She protected him from the terrors of the night.

The statue was made in his wife’s honor and all the sick children she had helped when she was a nurse. She was their savior, so the city had a statue of his wife placed in the park where she could watch the children play. George stopped visiting her over the years and his sadness grew into hatred and self-pity. He hated her for leaving him and never accepted being alone. Tears welled up in his eyes as he knelt done and polished the brass nameplate with his thumb. Oh, Margaret, he sighed. I’m so sorry that I’ve disappointed you. I just didn’t think life would be this hard without you. He moved in closer to the statue of the woman, placed his moistened face upon her breast, and then he was gone.

The boy came by again that night to pay his respects to the woman that saved his life, but he was shocked to find the display that was in front of him. The statue had grown in size and now took on the shape of a man and a woman in each other’s arms. The boy smiled at the couple and said his thanks to his special nurse. He turned to walk away, but decided to make one final wish. His penny soared through the air and actually landed in the hand of the lady and he smiled with delight.

“I wish…” the boy began. “I wish that you’re both finally happy.”

Dark clouds spanned the early afternoon sky as Edward walked out of the back door of the storage room of a florist. Edward was wearing a black cloak, ripped black jeans, and a black shirt. Edward liked the color black because it absorbed every spectrum of light, and he liked to absorb any information he could obtain or observe.

He was carrying a rare plant which most people do not think of owning, growing, or planting. It was a carnivorous plant. Its appearance is similar to the ones people think of being located in jungles. It had a stem, a big mouth with teeth which could snap, and thorns. It was small though, smaller than the pictures seen of them in a jungle habitat.

Edward approached his car, a black sedan with lightly tinted windows. He owned a black car for the same reason he wore black clothes. He got behind the wheel and placed the plant on the floor in front of the passenger seat. Edward thought to himself as he did each step, “put key in ignition, start engine, move stick, pull out, and drive.” He drove seven miles to his apartment in a neighboring town.

Upon arrival he parked the car, got out, hid the plant under his cloak, and walked to his room. Along the way someone asked what he was hiding under that cloak of his. He grunted and responded, “An artist does not reveal his work.”

After getting to his apartment he walked to his back room which he referred to as his “working studio” and put the plant down on the floor in a corner to the left of a window. The rest of the room was completely empty except for one wall. Against this wall was a mahogany desk with a computer and art supplies on it. Next to the desk was a tripod with a camera on top, and next the tripod was various lamps and lights.

Edward opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a few lenses and placed them on top of it. He walked over to the lamps and lights and grabbed two; one in each hand and placed them on the long window sill under the window he put the plant next to. He plugged them in and turned them on.

Edward went to his desk and turned on his computer. He opened up his uploaded photos to get inspired. Photos of people, dogs, cats, trees, benches, flowers, and buildings flashed on the screen. He scrolled past one after another until he stopped at one of the side of an old church with mice eating garbage. His eyes lit up at the sight of this. He had been reunited with inspiration again. He left the room, and did not come back until two hours later carrying a cage of mice, wood, nails, and a hammer. He put the cage down on the right side of the desk and the rest in the middle of the room. Edward sat down on the floor and started nailing pieces of wood together to make a right angle one foot high and four feet in each direction. He went to another drawer in his desk and pulled out a paint brush and wood stain. His floor was made of wood and he liked to use the same stain on any wood he brought into the room for his art. He stained the wood, and pushed the right angle into the corner of the room the plant was in. Edward then opened the window to air out the room of the retched smell of wood stain.

Edward turned off the lights and left the room walking to his bedroom in his two bedroom apartment. This bedroom was actually used as a bedroom and had an actual bed in it. The room was usually kept too dark to distinguish what else is actually in it besides the king sized mahogany bed. He took off his cloak and jeans and lay down in the bed to go to sleep. Edward closed his eyes and did not open them again until it was 9:33 the next morning.

The room was still really dark because he kept black clothed blinds down at all times to keep the room dark. He put his jeans and cloak back on and exited his room to go back to his “working studio.”

Edward entered the “working studio” and yawned. He checked the stained wood to see if it was dry; it was. He went back across the room and got the cage of mice. He released the eleven mice in the cage to run around in the corner around the carnivorous plant.

Edward went to his desk and grabbed his camera. He started snapping pictures of the mice running around the plant until he finished the roll of film. Edward walked back to his bedroom with his camera, and shut the door. He hit a switch, but a regular light did not turn on. Apparently his bedroom was also a photo development room. Tables lined one of wall of the room with bins on them. Along another wall was clothesline with photos hanging down from it developed.

Edward took the roll of film out of his camera and began to develop his film. He lay down on his bed to take a nap. A few hours later he woke up and looked at how the photos looked. An expression of dissatisfaction appeared on his face, and he walked out of the bedroom. He did not like the pictures he took.

He put a new roll of film in his camera and left the room again to go back to the “working studio” and was pleased to see that nothing died in the corner. He turned on his two lamps, and grabbed two more, and then another two. He scattered them around the room, plugged them all in, and turned them on.

A shadow appeared behind the carnivorous plant. Edward’s eyes lit up again, just like how they did when he saw the picture of the old church. He realized that he will use shadows to his advantage.

He began moving the lamps and lights around until he got shadows on the mice as well. He started snapping pictures. He stopped and moved the lights around a little more and got more shadow mice on the floor. He began snapping pictures again until his roll was finished.

Edward walked over to his desk and placed the camera down on it. He raised his arms in the air, looked at the ceiling, and shouted, “On this roll of film is the moneymaker!”

He turned toward the corner and pointed in its direction, and said “Tomorrow you all go back to the stores you came from.”

Edward, lay down on the floor, and starred at the ceiling. He whispered to himself, “I will call it ‘Too Low for Dinner’.” He stood up, turned off the lights, and grabbed his camera.

Edward exited the room closing the door behind him leaving the room dark. He had done it. He had taken the picture that was going to get him enough money to keep his apartment.

Sitting here glancing out the window,
I see a cow in the field.
I watch the lonely cow grazing in the meadow,
Chomping away at the freshly grown grass.
It is not quite a gloomy day, yet not sunny either.
I wonder what that cow’s thinking and what her life story would be like.
Would it be a story of sorrow, survival of the fittest, bliss, a memory, or nothing at all?
As the cow wanders off, my mind drifts again.
All these thoughts keep running through my mind endlessly, unexplainable.
What is out there in this world for me?
I’ve seen so much wrong that I don’t know what’s right.
Unanswered questions.
Does life have no purpose, or is there a meaning to all these thoughts?
There is now an empty grazing field, no more lonely cows.
Just trees and no sunlight, now a gloomy day.
Does this mean something?
The thoughts are slipping away like the clouds and now I see a light.
I shall follow the road untaken and make my life my memories.
It won’t pass me by.

The Beginning
Imagine a nice neighborhood with somewhat quiet streets and nice neat little houses with nice, manicured little yards. Now we will zoom in on one house in particular. This house is a small red-brick one with a dark red door. As we look through the kitchen window, we will see a black woman, in her late twenties or early thirties, drinking a cup of tea while waiting for her toast to toast in the toaster. Just as she turned to get a jar of jelly from the refrigerator the toast began to burn and smoke began to float up from the faulty appliance. By the time that she finally turned back around with the jar in hand, the smoke was pouring from the malfunctioning toaster. She gasped and ran to the dishrack to grab something that would pull the burning bread from the toaster. She grabbed a fork and used it to pry the now charcoal out. But as soon as the wet metal touched the still plugged in toaster…ZZZZZZZ. LaBertha Johnson got a jolt that would forever change her life.

It was her luck that Mrs. Snooker, her neighbor, walked in the back door.
“Oh dear,” She whispered and immediately unplugged the toaster. Now that LaBertha was free of the electricity, her body slumped to the floor. “Honey, are you alright?” she asked her obviously unconscious neighbor. She bent down and checked the young woman’s pulse and found that she could barely feel it. Mrs. Snooker shuffled to the phone and dialed 911.
Fifteen minutes later, the ambulance pulled into the driveway and two paramedics rushed a gurney through the door that Mrs. Snooker held open. Within five, the ambulance pulled away from the little brick house.

Three days later, LaBertha drove her blue BMW into her driveway after being released by the doctor to go home. As she pulled up, she noticed that a light was on in her bedroom. Mrs. Snooker must be feeding Sparky, she thought as she stepped out her car. Sparky was her little Scottie puppy that she found at the local Humane Society. I bet he misses me. She smiled as she walked around to the trunk to get her overnight bag. After closing the trunk, she slowly moved toward the front door, thinking of the joyful welcome that she was hoping to receive. Oops! I left the car door open. She turned around and walked back to the car. Using her hip, she closed the door, but instead of hearing the usual click she heard a loud crunch and something heavy hitting the ground behind her. To her surprise, the car door was dented and jammed into the frame of the still rocking car. LaBertha’s brown eyes were the size of half dollars as she took in the sight of her ruined car. She had bought this car with the first big check that she had earned as a private investigator. These repairs would cost more than three of her checks combined, now that business had slowed down.
After five minutes, which to her mouth seemed an eternity, she realized that her mouth was dry from hanging open. She closed her mouth and slowly backed away from the wreck and into the house where Mrs. Snooker was standing with the most confused look her old, wrinkled face. For ten minutes neither one of them could speak.
“What just happened?” LaBertha said at last.
“You’re asking me?” Mrs. Snooker replied. They sat another five minutes in silence.
“Does bumping a door closed usually cause that much damage?” Johnson asked, again breaking the silence. Mrs. Snooker did not answer. “How am I going to explain this to the insurance company?” LaBertha continued. “I think I’m going to call the hospital and see if there are any side effects to electrical shock.” LaBertha got up and went into the kitchen to call the hospital. After dialing, waiting for an answer, and then getting a recording, she slammed the phone onto its cradle. Hearing the crunch of plastic and the crumble of plaster while witnessing LaBertha’s hand disappearing into the wall left both women, for the fourth time, she was speechless.
After a silence that lasted about a minute, LaBertha asked Mrs. Snooker if she could borrow her car.
“Noooo!” the frightened, old woman screamed as she shuffled out of the door as fast as her old legs could carry her.
“I think I’ll go to work now,” LaBertha said to Sparky, who had just crawled out from under the table.
After staring at her damaged possessions, she walked down the street to the bus stop. LaBertha was about hundred feet or so from the stop when the bus slowed slightly as the driver looked for patrons. Not seeing her approaching, the bus driver sped up and continued down the street just as she ran up to the stop.
“Hey! Hey! Wait up!” LaBertha yelled as she began wave, jumping up and down to catch the driver’s attention. She caught the driver’s attention alright. After the second jump Labertha found herself surrounded by green leaves and rustling branches. Somehow she had jumped into the oak that overshadowed the bus stop.
“This is just great. First, I wreck my car, then I smash my phone into my wall, and now I miss the bus while doing a disappearing act,” LaBertha fumed as she sat in the branches of the oak.
But she did not realize that the number of people that had seen her uncanny abilities had increased in number. The bus driver nearly crashed when he saw a woman practically fly off of the ground while he watched in his rear view mirror.
About an hour after the ascension, LaBertha walked into her small office that she shared with her partner, Mike Washington, a fellow investigator.
“Looks like a tree attacked you,” Mike laughed as walked past his desk. LaBertha remained silent. So Mike kept going. “Or maybe you’re trying a ‘natural’ look.”
This remark seemed to grab LaBertha’s goat. She turned abruptly and gave him the Look. It was so intense that Mike was knocked out of his chair and his coffee mug shattered while it sat on his desk.
“Whoa,” Washington breathed.
“I can’t take this anymore,” LaBertha said as she broke down and cried. Seeing that this was really bothering her, Mike got up and came over to her side.
“Can’t take what?” he asked, immediately curious. She told him about everything that had happened to her that day and he was now as baffled as she was. “I’ll drive you to the hospital, if you want me to.” She nodded and thanked him as they both got up and headed to his car.

Late that night, after myriads of tests, the doctors were still baffled at LaBertha’s test results.
“Most extraordinary,” commented one doctor.
“Maybe we should send her to get another opinion,” said another.
“I think that this is something that we should keep quiet,” the head doctor said. “I have a feeling that the government would love to run some tests on her.” he let that thought sink in before he continued. “And that might bring this hospital more funding.”
A doctor objected. “We’ll have to get her permission first before we do anything further. And aren’t there other ways to get funding? More worthy causes?”
His question hung in the air but no one bothered to answer it. Neither was the head doctor going to because he had plans forming in the back of his mind.
In another part of the hospital, LaBertha and Mike waited for the doctors to come back and voice their decision. While they were conversing, the door opened and two orderlies dressed in ill-fitting uniforms entered the room. The dark-haired one spoke first. “Doctor Smith sent us to transfer you to another hospital for testing.” As the last words left his mouth, the other orderly moved forward with a cloth in hand and proceeded to put it over LaBertha’s nose. But before Mike could stop him, he, too, was unconscious.

“W-where am I?” mumbled the dazed and sedated LaBertha. When she did not get an answer, she tried to get up to look around, but found that she could only raise her head. The rest of her body was strapped down to a metal examining table. Wonderful, she thought as she let her head rest on the cold metal.
Feeling that she had to do something, she picked her head up again and began to scan the part of the room that she could see. There was a door to her right and a small window was directly above her. Mike was to her left and he, too, was strapped down. Just as her gaze began to shift, Mike groaned. “Mike, you okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, I think so,” Mike replied groggily.
Then a voice came out of nowhere. “Ahh, I see that my guests have finally arrived and are ready for our scheduled conference.” Then the door opened and a stately middle aged man entered the examining room. “My name Dr. Christopher P. Smith and I will be your host. I see that you have already made yourselves quite comfortable. The first of our events will be the extraction of blood from Miss Johnson.” On cue, the two “orderlies,” now dressed in well-fitting clothes, came into the room. “These are my assistants, Mr. Logan and Mr. Harollds.” With a nod from their leader, they prepared the needle needed to do their task.
“Now wait just a minute,” LaBertha said indignantly, “Don’t I get some say in this?”
“Not exactly, Miss Johnson,” Dr. Smith said with poorly hidden annoyance in his voice.
“And why not?” asked LaBertha equally annoyed.
“Because you are strapped down and I am not,” replied Smith with a hint of amusement on his face.
“Well, unstrap us and we’ll see who gets to say what!” Mike snarled angrily.
“Now, now, Mr. Washington,” the doctor purred. “There is no need for such violence. Mr. Harollds, please administer the silent treatment to Mr. Washington.” The assistant walked to the table that Mike was strapped to and simply placed a strip of duct tape on Mike’s mouth. “Now for the withdrawal.”
Mr. Logan moved toward LaBertha with a needle that looked rather large. With every step, LaBertha’s rage and fear grew. When Logan’s last step brought him to her side, LaBertha broke the bonds on her arms and she then punched Logan so hard that he hit the floor and did not move. Seeing this, Dr. Smith and Harollds were stunned, but Dr. Smith quickly recovered.
“Get over there, dunderhead!” Smith yelled.
“Yes, sir.” Harollds said with a bit of hesitation. Then he moved cautiously over the foot of LaBertha’s table, but found that she had already unfastened her legs and was ready to kick his head in. But she settled on just kicking him in the groin.
Now it’s time for Smith’s payment, thought LaBertha. But it was too late. Smith, who was a couple of steps ahead of her, had already gotten outside and was locking the door.
“Don’t think that this is over, Miss Johnson. My experiments have only just begun.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that, I’ll be waiting for you, Dr. Smith.”
LaBertha, realizing that it would only be a matter of time before the two henchman woke up, looked around the room for something to tie them up with. In a drawer, she found some tubing with which she tied Logan and Harollds together. Now that that task was completed, she freed Mike. He took the tape off of his mouth.
“Smith is really going to get it now. Just let me at that wimp. If you can hear me, Doctor, come out and fight like a real man. Where are—“
“Shut up, Mike,” LaBertha hissed. “That’s no way to get him out.” She grabbed him and whispered her plan into his ear.
When she finished, a smile spread across Mike’s face. “Wonderful! When do we start?”
“I’m not sure, but I’ll know when the time is right,” she assured him.

Dr. Smith looked up the phone numbers of the people that he wanted to contact in Washington, D. C. He decided to call General Banks, a fellow doctor who had joined the army in their younger days. He dialed the number and waited. The secretary who answered recognized him and put him straight through to her boss.
“Hello, Chris,” a rumbling voice answered.
“Hello, Angus,” the doctor replied. He was the one of the few people that could call the General by his first name. “I’m sorry that we cannot chat like long lost friends right now, but I have a peculiar specimen that I think would be of importance to you. This may very well be a breakthrough in military tactics.”
“You don’t say.” Smith could not tell if this was genuine interest or sarcasm until the General continued, “Give me a date and time and I’ll be there.”
“Anytime in the next two days should do.” Smith rubbed his hands together and grinned.
“Well, let me clear up some business here and I will let you know when I’ll be able to make it. Alright?”
“Alright.” Smith hung up the phone and looked for the number of a scientist he knew at Roswell.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m getting hungry,” Mike stated.
“Well, you’re not the only one. I wonder how long we’ve been in here.” LaBertha looked around for the umpteenth time. This time the window registered in her mind. “Why didn’t I see that before?” she thought aloud. Then she got up from where she was sitting and walked over to the table to which she had been strapped earlier. LaBertha climbed onto the table and stood up so she could reach the window. There seemed to be no latch, so the only way to open the window was to break it open. LaBertha jumped down from the table to look for a sheet to protect her from broken glass. Unfortunately, Dr. Smith had seen to it that there would be nothing to use for escaping the room.
“Take off your shirt,” LaBertha said curtly to Mike.
“Why?” Mike asked. “What are you going to do with it?”
“It doesn’t matter. Just give me the stupid shirt.” When Mike saw the look in her eyes, he did not argue and did what she said.
LaBertha took the shirt and wrapped her hand in it. She stared at her hand for a moment, then decided not to use the shirt like that. Instead, she put the shirt on her head and pulled off her shoe. She backed up a little then threw the shoe as hard as she could.
The glass shattered and showered down on LaBertha. But her shoe did not come back down nor did they hear it land. That’s strange, she thought as she cleared away the remaining glass. “Come on, Mike. We’re getting out of here.”
“Can I have my shirt back?”
“Sure.”
Mike took his shirt, shook it a few times, then put it on. He noticed that there were a few holes in it that were not there before but decided that it was still wearable for the moment. He looked up and saw that his partner had already made her escape. “How’d you get out so fast?”
“I jumped.”
“You jumped. Great.” Then Mike climbed out to catch up with LaBertha.

The telephone rang in Dr. Smith’s office. Smith stopped typing and picked up the receiver. “Hello.”
“Hey, Chris, this is Angus.”
“Oh, hi. So what time should I expect you?”
“Something major has come up and I won’t be able to make it for another two weeks or so. Will that be too late?”
“I would say so. I cannot hold the specimen for too long. People will begin to miss it if I keep it too long or someone else may beat you to the punch. I have offered to show it to several organizations.”
“How d– Maybe I can make it this weekend,” Banks said in defeat.
“Good. I’ll make sure to delay the tour until you arrive.”
“Tour?”
“Of course, my friend. You will join a party of other prospects when you arrive.”
“I thought this was a private thing between you and me, not a circus,” Banks nearly shouted.
“I never said that, Angus.”
“I could have sworn –“ Banks began to say.
“You were quite mistaken, General,” Smith said firmly. “Now I have urgent matters that I must attend to. Will I see you on Saturday?”
“Yes. You can count on it, buster.” The phone clicked and the line went dead.
Unruffled, Dr. Smith pushed a button for another line and called Harollds to his office.
When Harollds arrived, Dr. Smith noticed that his lackey had a worried look on his face and was nervously wringing his hands. He decided to let Harollds be the first to bring up whatever was bothering him.
“Yes, Dr. Smith?” Harollds asked quietly, almost mumbling.
“I want you and Mr. Logan to make sure everything is in tip-top shape by Friday. And see if the prisoners are hungry. We don’t want them to waste away before Saturday arrives.”
Mr. Harollds cleared his throat nervously. “Uh, sir, the prisoners aren’t here.”
“What do you mean ‘they’re not here’?” Dr. Smith asked in a surprisingly calm tone.
“Well, sir, what I said. They’re not here.”
“Have you looked for them?”
Mr. Harollds studies an imaginary spot on the rug. “Well, no sir. You called me just as I was beginning to search.”
“Then what are you waiting for? Get going!” Dr. Smith yelled as he slammed his desk with his fist.
“Y-yes sir,” Harollds stuttered as he backed toward the door.
Just when I come into an easy fortune, everything goes wrong, Dr. Smith thought as his office door is closed quietly.

“What do we do now, fearless leader?” Mike asked sarcastically.
“First, we get away from this building,” LaBertha answered testily. She started to run forward until a bright light that seemed to come out of nowhere lit up the entire complex. LaBertha instinctively jumped back. “Okay. Let’s try something else,” she whispered as she squatted next to Mike who had not budged.
“Change of plans, o fearless leader?” Mike questioned mockingly.
“Give me a minute, I’m thinking.”
“I wish we could turn off these hot lights,” Mike complained as he used what was left of his shirt to wipe the sweat off of his brow.
“That’s it! Let’s find out where the power source for the complex is and shut off the power,” LaBertha said more to herself than to her companion. Mike nodded in agreement to LaBertha’s back as she began to move away from along the wall.
The complex was pretty large and the building that had been their prison seemed to be the main building. It took about ten minutes for LaBertha and Mike to walk around the building. They were about to move on to the next building when suddenly they heard footsteps.
“I wish this ground wasn’t concrete,” they heard one of the henchmen say, “because if it were just dirt, we would be able to at least find their tracks.”
LaBertha motioned for Mike to move closer. “Let’s head over to that building over there,” LaBertha whispered and pointed to the building that would take that was farthest from their hunters. “At least we’ll be away from them for awhile.” She sprinted for the building but was surprisingly stopped by an invisible force field surrounding their target building. She bounced off the field like a tennis ball bouncing off of a concrete wall.
“Are you alright?” Mike puffed out when he finally caught up to her.
“Yeah, I think so,” LaBertha responded while checking for injuries.
“What now, genius?” Mike asked sarcastically when he was sure that she was okay.
LaBertha gave him the Look and knocked him into the force field.
“Hey! Don’t do that again or I’m gonna -” Mike fumed until he realized that LaBertha was not even paying attention to him. She was staring into the direction of the force field. She screwed up her face and directed her concentration at field and was rewarded with a crackle. The force field was weakening! LaBertha stood up and walked closer to the weakened spot and punched it with all her might. Her punch threw her off balance and she fell through the opening.
“Well that was easy,” LaBertha breathed as she dusted herself off.
“Keep that up and our police department will want to recruit you for the S.W.A.T. team,” Mike commented, stepping through the now widening hole. “What’s next?”
“Same thing as before, we search for the power source to this place.”
After searching for about five minutes it seemed that this building was devoid of any openings except for an occasional air vent. Just as the two escapees were about to give up their search, Mike found a what seemed to be a door. “Bingo,” he whispered as he looked for a way to open the door since it did not have a knob or any other obvious opening mechanism. “Or maybe not.”
“We don’t have time to figure this out,” LaBertha said as she gently nudged Mike to the side of the door. Turning to face him, she swung her left hip towards the door and sent if flying into the darkness beyond the new opening. “Next time don’t call out “bingo” until you’ve double checked your numbers. You go left and I’ll go right.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mike said with astonishment in his voice. Dang, what can’t she do? He thought as he entered the dark room.
LaBertha followed the wall with one hand touching the wall and the other stretched out in front of her. It was not too long before her guiding wall stopped and her left hand told her that she was facing another wall. But this wall was not made of the same material as the one that she had used a guide. It was smooth like glass. Actually, it was glass! LaBertha felt along the glass wall until she felt a crack and air seeping through it. She followed the crack with her fingers until they were about waist high. Aha! Here’s the door handle. Opening the door, LaBertha was suddenly bathed in light. Not again, she groaned inwardly as she listened for alarms. Luckily there were none and she continued through the door. Directly in front of her was a workstation with nothing but a computer screen on the desk’s surface. Since LaBertha and computers were not the best of friends, she immediately turned around and searched the darkness for Mike. He was running for the glass cage as he looked around for sentries to jump out or laser beams to cut him in half.
“Why to you get all the excitement?” Mike huffed when he reached the door.
LaBertha ignored his remark and pointed to the workstation. “I think that this computer controls the power. Do you think that you could get in and figure out how to turn it off?”
“Shouldn’t be problem, milady.”

I wish that I had set up that new surveillance system! Dr. Smith fumed as he listened to the radio set in his hand.
“Sir, Building A shows no sign of them,” said the voice coming through the speaker.
“Well, of course not, you idiot! Use the ScentFinder and maybe you’ll get a clue this time!” Smith screamed, his voice becoming shrill.
The ScentFinder is a robot that can pick up just about any scent that is stored in its memory. The robot is a compact machine that has various modes of transportation, changing according to the terrain. This machine is 99.9% accurate and rarely loses its prey.
While Dr. Smith resides in his in his office, Mr. Harollds and Mr. Logan are now searching Building B.
“I’ll search outside and you go get the ScentFinder,” Mr. Harollds told Mr. Logan.
“Roger,” Mr. Logan saluted as he turned to fulfill his assignment.
“I’m not Roger, I’m John,” Harollds corrected.
“I was not calling you Roger, I was letting you know that I got what you said,” Logan replied irritably.
“I know. I was just trying to be funny. You know a joke.”
“Sure you were, John I’m going to get the ScentFinder.”
Mr. Harollds turned to resume his search. Just as he headed for the Maintenance Building, the lights overhead flickered and then went completely out.
“Hey, what happened to the lights,” Mr. Harollds asked the night air. “Good thing I have this,” he said as he whipped out his keychain flashlight and continued on his way.

“Mike, you are the man,” LaBertha squealed in congratulations.
“Thank you. Thank you very much,” Mike said in his best Elvis voice. “But how are we going to get back out of here? We don’t have any light whatsoever and we didn’t steal a flashlight or two before we left the other building.”
You’re right. You think that you can turn the power back on? There have to be some flashlights kept around here for emergencies. Speaking of emergencies, it’s kinda weird that there are no emergency lights in here.”
Mike punched a few keys and brought power back online. “An the then there was light,” Mike muttered.
“We’d better get going before they find us,” LaBertha said cutting Mike’s shining moment short.
A voice came from behind them. “I think it’s a little too late for that, Miss,” Mr. Logan growled from the doorway. He pulled his radio from his belt. “Mr. Harollds, you’re needed.”
“You don’t think you can take both of us on, do you?” Mike challenged.
“Well, me and my partner Bessie will keep you two in line,” Logan grinned as he pulled out his handgun.
“What’s going on -” Mr. Harollds stopped when he became aware of the situation.
“It looks like we’re in luck once again, my friend,” Logan bragged.
“Have you called Dr. Smith yet?” Harollds asked his colleague.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Imbecile.”
“I didn’t call because I didn’t want to screw up a good thing like you would’ve done.”
Harollds glowered at Logan as he pushed the call button on his radio.
“Yes, what is it?” Dr. Smith answered.
“We’ve got the specimens, sir.”
Good. Bring them back to their room.”
“Yes, sir.” Harollds turned off his radio. He nodded to Logan and the group walked back to the Building A.
Dr. Smith met the group at the door. “Nice to see you again,” he purrred. “Gentlemen, please escort our lovely guests to another room.”
“Sure thing, Dr. Smith,” the “gentlemen” answered.
“Does this room have beds this time?” Mike inquired.
Silence.
“Do we get a TV?”
Silence.
“How about room service?”
Silence.
“Are we almost there?”
“Just shut up, man. You’re really getting on my nerves,” Logan threw over his shoulder.
“We’re here, ladies and gentlemen,” Harollds announced.
The room was much smaller than the room in which they had been imprisoned. There were no windows. Two beds were the only furnishings in the cell. Dust covered everything.
“Wow, is this luxury or what?” LaBertha said flatly.
“Just get in there and we’ll be keeping a close watch on you two.” Logan nodded towards the far corner. There was a small camera perched there and in every corner of the room.
“So what keeps us from breaking or covering up the cameras?” Mike asked to no one in particular.
“Oh, nothing at all. But we’ll still know where you two are,” Harollds smirked as he and Logan backed out of the cell and closed the door behind them.
“Now what are we going to do?” Mike whined. “We got out of the first room they put us in, but this room doesn’t look so easy.”
Will you just be quiet for once. You’re not helping this situation any by your complaining,” LaBertha said through clenched teeth.
Mike was quiet.
For the next twenty minutes, the cell was in complete silence. But the two inhabitants were quiet for two completely different reasons. LaBertha was trying to figure out how to escape. Mike was sulking.
At last, LaBertha broke the silence. “This cell should be be as easy to break out of as the last one we were in,” she said cheerfully.
“There’s no window,” Mike mumbled.
“I have super-strength now. I can bust the door down or break through a wall or two,” LaBertha replied casually.
“So what’s the holdup? We should have been out of here by now,” Mike argued.
“It isn’t quite that easy, Mike. As soon as I begin to do something, those goons outside are going to know. So that means that they’ll be waiting for us when we get out or at least stop us with a couple of bullets. You may not know this, but I’m not bulletproof.”
“Not Wonder Woman, huh?” Mike snorted.
“Wonder Woman isn’t bulletproof, her bracelets are.”
“Excuse me, Supergirl then.”
“Can’t fly.”
“Why don’t we just jump them when they come to give us our food. They do it all the time on TV.”
“I was just going to say that. There is one power that I can use without alerting them.”
Logan and Harollds opened the cell door just as LaBertha finished speaking.
“It’s time for the lab rat to run the maze,” Logan said as he and Harollds approached LaBertha.
“Who are you calling a lab rat?” LaBertha growled as she gave them the Look. That Look was more powerful than any other Look that LaBertha has thrown thus far. It was so powerful that it knocked both goons and the wall of the cell into the hall. It was also enough to leave Mike both speechless and motionless. But LaBertha did not even notice. She just grabbed his arm and leaped over the mess, clearing it as if she were hopping over a puddle on a rainy day. A few yards down the hall, Mike finally snapped out of his shock, and LaBertha released her grip on his arm.
Rounding a corner, the two escapees nearly ran down Dr. Smith, who had stepped from the shadows to block their escape.
“You really thought that you escape, didn’t you?” the doctor sneered.
“We still can,” LaBertha answered calmly.
“How?” Both Dr. Smith and Mike questioned in unision.
LaBertha could not answer immediately, but here chance came before anyone could notice her hesitation. Logan stumbled from around the corner and distracted Dr. Smith for a split second. But that was all LaBertha needed. She leaped towards Dr. Smith feet first, striking his chest. The blow effectively knocked the wind out the doctor thus immobilizing him. Mike took that moment to give Logan a left hook to the jaw that sent him sprawling behind them.
“That’s how,” LaBertha stated as she picked Dr. Smith up off of the floor where he had lain gasping for breath. She turned to Mike. “I’ll watch these two losers and you can go get the sheets off of those cots in the cell. We’ll use them to tie up all three of them and then call the cops.”
Half an hour later, Mike and LaBertha stood amidst the organized chaos of a crime scene answering most of the questions of the detective in charge. Both avoided telling the detective the means of their escape and just let the woman draw her own conclusions. Some things are just better left unsaid. But they were clear on what Dr. Smith had done to them and made sure that charges were pressed. There was enough evidence to put Dr. Smith and his henchmen away for a very long time.

My girl asks Mommy what’s the time? and I say
Time to sled into a snowpile, play
Make believe or cookie cop or
End the day leisurely bathing with
Unimaginable legions of friends

What time is it Mommy when the Big Hand touches twelve?
Time to stand up tall, to bat,
Stretch out long
Like a cat:

Mommy, the Big Hand is on the nine,
And the little hand is on the twelve, Mommy
Can I call someone? anyone, to tell them the time
And I say it’s late but I wonder

Can I teach you
Do I reach you
Can I wish for you
Trying to rush you from bath to bed but then
Stories drag out the decision
And the light stays on

And what time will it be
When I stop asking and forget that I ever did ask, and then
Ask while you write this, why are you writing this? And
The mother raises her eyes to her beloved to
Tell her how she looked
Asleep, oval face and long brown hair
Like a fallen angel, streaming dark across the white pillow

They whirled and flurried from the sky.
They came to me in the middle of the night,
some silently, some clumsily bumping into things.
They stuck their tongues in my mouth.
Some slunk along the edge of the river bank
like feral cats. Some ran ahead of me
like those bumpkins in Pamplona.
They flicked their beautiful tail feathers.
They took things personally and sulked or pouted.
They undressed and they got dressed.
They spoke to strangers and took up with them.
Some recovered from one trauma or another.
Some did not. One saved somebody’s life.
They fed me. They traveled with me.
They ventured out of the woods
and nibbled dead meat beside the highway.
They whispered in my good ear.
They scuttled down the street
behind cars and muscular pickups.
They got taken in by shysters.
Some went off somewhere to find themselves.
They danced around in skimpy outfits.
Some slowly became themselves
as if they had no idea what else to do.

None of this will hasten
or delay that dazzling flash
astonishingly brief on the horizon.
Some of these children have never seen
a river or an orchard or a pea pod
before today. Poppies and impatiens
that make you think “cinnamon”
instead of “cinnabar” perhaps
are in simultaneous bloom
with tiger lilies and chicory
along the road and bachelor buttons
and clematis near the porch.
The children are without dread.
They investigate every crevice
for the golden apples they’ve heard
about. Only this morning
a man in khaki drove a green tractor
through “that protected section
yonder” beyond which coal is being stripped.
Two starlings chase a sparrow
veering crazily but not dropping
the bread crust from its beak.
Not one detail here depends
on any other, not even the boy
in the chocolate and lemon polo shirt
about to discover a handful of bees.

The night was made for romance.
In the night our two hearts dance.
Under the stars our lips touch.
In the garden your embrace means so much.

The night was made for love.
Our hearts cooing like a white dove.
Your eyes sparkling like diamonds so white.
I love you darling with all my might.

The night was made for caring and trust.
And darling, God made this night for us.

The jobs that I’ve held have been various,
My character, sometimes nefarious,
Not normally funny,
Enough to make money,
When nude, women think I’m hilarious.

Sea surge sluicing
Salt Citrus
Over the tongue
Pale seeds
Like transparent pebbles,
Slipslide longways,
Settling in sea algae–
Cool dark underworld green down.
Upsideways,
Yellow-bright sun pinwheels on high,
Over our celadon haven for nests.

When your away
My eyes cry
Tiny little tears
On my pillow
I feel so alone
When your not
Here
I wish you
Would come back
Home
Where you need
To be
Because I feel
So Lost
Without you

Franky couldn’t pinpoint the exact day he first saw the creature. He guessed he’d always had a feeling that something in his existence wasn’t quite right, but he never could put his finger on it. And so he went about his usual boring daily routines, battling the endless flow of commuters to his dead-end job. Franky had become so proficient at purchasing the minuscule parts for his company’s printed circuit boards that he usually only contributed about twenty to thirty minutes of actual work before surfing the web for the remainder of the day. Following another uneventful day perched in front of a hypnotizing monitor inside of his tiny green cubicle, Franky would once more fight his way through traffic, only to return to an empty, sad little studio apartment. His only company was a rat (whom he dubbed Mr. Squeakers) that occasionally shuffled about inside the walls of the tenement, much to his landlord’s chagrin.

It was only after numerous months of this ho-hum life that Franky realized something special was happening to him. He had gotten up at a woefully early hour (as usual), showered and shaved (yawn), then was turning to head towards his closet when he got the distinct impression that he was not alone in the apartment. He halted in his steps at the threshold of the bathroom, swiveling his head from side to side, scanning the tiny abode for any minute disturbance. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he took a single step into the combined kitchenette/bedroom and was shocked to see a tiny red “man” balanced on the edge of the cracked formica countertop. Gasping audibly, he blinked long and slow, and the apparition disappeared. Unnerved by the ethereal presence, he covered his heart with his right hand, and strode over to the counter. He gingerly swiped his hand across the surface, and noted that the countertop felt unusually warm where the apparition has appeared, as if a hot pan had just been removed from the countertop.

“Don’t loose it now, Franky-boy”, he muttered to himself. Then he turned back towards his closet and proceeded to dress for another unremarkable day at the office. Unknown to him, Franky would never have another unremarkable day for the rest of his life.

The real trouble started when Franky was crossing the parking lot adjacent to his apartment, heading towards his ancient maroon Honda. He was walking at a steady pace, inspecting the nearly empty lot as he walked, when he again glimpsed the little red man, hovering over the trunk of a white Chevy Impala about 20 feet away. He stopped in his tracks and stared at the strange apparition. The being was human-like, but far more terrifying in form than anything he had ever witnessed. Two unnaturally large amber eyes glowed out of a fleshy mound of a head. A black beak-like protrusion jutted out from where the beings nose ought to have been, which sat atop a gaping gash which Franky assumed was its mouth. The creature’s body was covered in blisters and pus-filled sores, some of which were oozing out a purplish-green substance that was in turn leaking down the being’s arms and legs. Franky didn’t even want to imagine what the thing must smell like, although he assumed it was somewhere along the lines of rotting fish or putrid flesh.

Franky inhaled sharply, eyes transfixed on the form, his mind already considering possible escape routes should the creature decide to approach him. Just then, it grinned, and displayed a set of strange, jagged, silvery teeth. The expression on the being’s face was almost contemptuous, as if it knew what Franky was thinking and was ready to cut-off any getaway that Franky had planned. Franky gulped down a breath of smog-filled air, blinked rapidly in succession…and the creature disappeared as suddenly as it had materialized.

At this point in time, Franky was quite certain he’d either been drugged or else the chicken he’d had for dinner the night before had been tainted. Opting for a day of bed rest over making a fool of himself in front of his co-workers, he began trekking back up to his second-floor apartment. With trembling hands he tried inserting the key into the deadbolt and then cursed aloud when he dropped them. He bent over to pick up the fob, glancing cautiously over his shoulder as he did so. He was straightening back up and staring intently on the keyhole when he felt a hot breeze glide across his neck and caught a whiff of the most noxious, reeking odor he had ever experienced. Gagging involuntarily, he miraculously fumbled the key into the lock, just in time to step into the doorway and retch all over the tiled entryway as well as his spiffy clean loafers.

Whirling around (while still vomiting), he slammed the front door shut and engaged both deadbolts as well as the security chain. Only then did the heaving subside, and Franky took a long, deep breath. Disgusted by his actions, he immediately rushed into the bathroom to see if he could salvage his shoes by any chance. He stripped down to his boxers and proceeded to rinse his shoes off in the sink. The fact that he kept whispering to himself, “Get it together, Franky-boy, pull it together, Franky-boy,” over and over didn’t even register. He finally gave up on the shoes (ruined) and set them on top of the toilet lid, then leaned over the sink, cupped his hands under the running water, then slurped and swished the clean cool water around his mouth.

He started to calm down. That was when he looked in the mirror and saw the creature’s unmistakable glowing eyes shining in the mirror just behind where he was standing. Franky froze and just stood leaning on the porcelain sink, eyes locked with the glowing orbs reflected in the hazy glass. Franky blinked…..and again the creature was gone.

Franky sank down onto his squeaky mattress and put his head in his hands. He was afraid he was completely losing it. He felt as though he couldn’t trust his own eyes, worried what disgusting image would assault him the next time he blinked. Knowing what he had to do, Franky quickly hurried over to the kitchenette and began rummaging around in his junk drawer, all the while holding his eyelids open with the middle finger and thumb of his right hand. He soon found his prize, and returned to his sunken mattress. He carefully applied a piece of scotch tape to each eyelid, praying the adhesive would be strong enough to hold his eyes open, at least until he could reach the phone on the opposite wall of the apartment. He made a mad dash to the handset, all the while worrying exactly what he was going to say to get the police to come to his aide, but he knew better than to tell the dispatcher the truth. As he dialed 9-1-1, he quickly rehearsed a story about some kind of burglary, then to his dismay, sneezed loudly as soon as the operator answered the other line. The sneezing caused his eyelids to shut, against his will, and against the will of the tape. Obviously, his plan to keep from blinking had misfired. As he slowly opened his eyes, he again smelled the distinctly fetid aroma filling his nostrils and he instinctively began gasping and gagging, forcing himself to blink to try to eradicate the presence he knew would be waiting behind him. He could dimly hear the operator on the other end of the receiver asking what his emergency was, but he was entirely incapacitated by the sickly odor and could not answer her….then he felt a hot hand on his shoulder….

“So what happened with this guy,” asked the officer as he leaned over the paramedics, trying to catch a glimpse of the carnage below.

“Ripped his eyelids clear off, mumbling something or another about the boogeyman,” the technician answered. “ Prime candidate for the psych ward at county, if you ask me. Hey – do you smell that god-awful stench?”

Today is the same as yesterday.
Tomorrow will be the same as today.
Misery pushes open the door of desperation.
A lull descends upon demeanor, and hopes quickly dissipate.
Soon becomes an afterthought.
Time passes.
Tomorrows come, and yesterdays pass with no change in incident.
Time is no friend of irrevocable circumstance.
Spirit is broken, and all becomes submissive.
Only to immortalize that which is influential.
It’s this time, all times, all ways. Ad finem.
To the end.

Seasons change from summer to fall
Winter coming with an early frost
Plants start to shrievel up and turn brown
Grass soon turns into hay
Trees begin to lose all the leaves
Which turned such pretty colors in the fall.

People grow and change year to year
A baby learns its first word
Two new parents so brilliantly excited
A young boy learns to ride his bike

Like everything does in the cycle of life
People may grow, things may change
We can choose to accept it or run scared

Life is meant to be lived to the fullest

The weather might not all be sunny
You might not always wear a smile

Laughter may never come

Connections may be lost between good friends

In the end, one thing is constant
That is which we call, love.

You can read more of Courtney’s work at: http://allpoetry.com/smurf

I cant suppress all these memories. Why would I try?
The past, like a songbird perched matter-of-factly on my window sill.
Not to be neglected. Passed down, recorded, each one.
On blank pages are penned an account of my life.
Etched on my brain for eternity.

Each one so vivid, like a beacon in the darkest of night.
They are replayed on a stage set in my mind.
I can return again and again to each scene, or not. Prolonged or fleeting; or not at all.
I am the keeper of these abstract thoughts.

There is no moderation. Only anything and everything.
Like sacred writings, I will read until my senses are full.
Until each perception has been nurtured,
all my impressions have been completely and entirely saturated,
every sensation has been manipulated absolutely.

They will continue on their voyage. There is no lull.
They peak, and my intellect becomes intoxicated. They have come to anchor now.
A hushed calm occupies my will. All reflection recedes.
Back to the recesses of my intellect. But only for a brief intermission.
Nestled among exaggerations,secrets, and misinterpretations.

The streets of Kyoto were dark and not a single lamp nor house was lit. It seemed rather strange that there would be not a single soul in the town. Kat Myamouto was on her way home in the southern corner, when a solid black figure moved passed her. It created such a presence it nearly pushed her off her own two feet. Kat was startled feeling her red hair rise up and swish against her back. The figure crept its way up to what appeared to be a stone tower or maybe a castle. This tower had many windows, and like most of the town no light resonated from it. Her jade eyes gleamed with fear as she saw another young girl her age on top of the tower. It caused a sensation of chills to creep and crawl up her spine and down her arms. She had the feeling, either this was the wrong night to be lost in a familiar city or she was being watched.

“Such a pretty girl..” The figure said. Its ice blue eyes gazed down at Kat. It had a plan for this newcomer.

Kat kept on walking down the street in nervous. Her heart pounding fast like she had just ran a mile in a jog or marathon. Her red hair became damp as sweat dripped down her face past her green eyes. She could taste the sweat as it moved down her cheek, following it down to her red lips. She was feeling more and more discomfort, walking, faster, faster still, and faster yet. The figure glares more, chuckling to herself lightly as she sharpened the knife within her hands. When all of a sudden, Kat had made it to the tower. ‘This is not an illusion…’ she thought, as the figure came down from the tower and transformed again, into a dog. It looked so innocent as it grabbed Kat’s attention and lead her through the threshold into the tower. The dog-like persona lead Kat to a staircase where she sat with it. It looked at her and began to speak, “Hello young girl.” Kat looked at it like it was another illusion to lure her elsewhere rather on the path to the safe part of town. She shook her head, pretending she heard nothing, because this was becoming a weird nightmare. The dog spoke again, this time very stern, “Hello girl, you know you are one with your own sixth sense.” Thunder began to rumble and echo throughout the tower as it did so outside. Kat’s eyes widened at what she wanted to believe was a dog, but still refrained from saying nothing. There was a loud crash followed by a bright blue light. It had just now gotten worse, it had began to storm.

“Um, I guess I could be. Where has everyone gone in this town?” Kat stated as firm as she could without showing signs of nervousness.

It looked at her with its’ ice blue eyes once more and smirked, “Darling, you’re in another world…one where people like you are held in high regard…or killed.” Kat’s eyes grew larger than the rims of her silver glasses. She was not only now afraid of this new world, a scary figure, a talking dog, a thunderstorm, but of being KILLED.

“Not to worry my dear, we won’t kill you…we are creatures not like others, we are shadow figures…and figures of shadows and of your own fears.” the dog-like persona continued telling Kat. She wanted nothing more than to make her feel at ease but, this wouldn’t work. She took his sentence like one of those IQ Test questions that she never got, and this made her quite puzzled.

“My fear is death…death and being alone.” Kat stated to the figure as it transformed yet again, this time a woman. The womanly figure stood tall with blue eyes and long black hair. The black hair was just as long as Kat’s. It stood up in its kimono-like robes and smiled at Kat, revealing its’ next trick of transformation, Kat’s fear since she was little-her mother. The fear rose in Kat’s stomach, tying up in little knots. Each one, just as painful as the other, making her cringe inside.

((Background Information))
The maternal nature of Kat’s mother isn’t one for us to judge. Though this was what she looked as, the figure never could bring out the side Kat knew. The one that would call her out of her room just to shove her back in. Her mother was a foul woman, that never really expected much in her life or for Kat nonetheless. Her mother bore Kat out of wedlock and never really forgave the man that did this deed. He was an American businessman, that one day stopped into a brothel for a good time, and ended up bringing more than just a good time. Nine months later her mother gave birth to her and that was the first day of hell even before her mother ran. Kris Nakamura was her name, and all she was known for throughout Kyoto as a “slut.” Before all that, Kat’s mother was a beautiful, jaw-dropping woman. She had long black hair and blue eyes. She stood pretty tall for a woman and was always one to light up the room with excitement. One day, when she had enough of her husband’s brutality, she left him. There were no longer money ties and when she became desperate she ran to Yosai Shikimori. He said she could work as long as she did not do anything to disgrace the Shikimori Clan of Southern Kyoto. Though this bruised her pride, she bore Kat, and ran to shelter in Northern Kyoto with the American businessman, also known as John Copenhagen. Within the next 5 years everything began to draw itself into darkness and Kris withdrew herself, only to die at hand to the Shikimori Clan of Southern Kyoto.

There is nothing but silence as Kat stared at the figure of her mother. She feared the worst would come of it and just started for the entrance, it had remained opened. The rain was thrashing about the streets like a bunch of cars caught in a rainstorm. Kat blinked once more as she glared and it seemed this whole darkness thing disappeared. It was no longer her in a room, surrounded by nothing but walls at what appeared to be a silhouette of her mother. She was back on the white sidewalk, walking down the busy street of Kyoto. The splashing noise began to create themselves once more as cars passed right on by. It had not only stormed in Dark Kyoto but now in reality. Rain was ever persistent in Kyoto, never once truly left the city. It may stop for days and days but then start up again. Just like the sun, which sets all year long in a different spot. However, on three days it sets in the same spot under Crux and rises back up. This too, was a cycle. Seems everything in life revolved in a circle. Kat walked down to her corner which she lived on and took towards her friend, Krinn. He was standing outside, looking as though he was waiting for her. Above his head he held a soggy newspaper, which he shielded his hair from the rain.

“Where have you been, I have been out here for hours ringing this doorbell?!” he exclaimed, relieved to see Kat, giving her a tight hug. She looked at him with a blank stare from her eyes. It was like the darkness had somehow succumb itself inside her.
“Nowhere important to you…” she replied, giving an awful look of deceit, eyes glowing red for a second.

This wasn’t Kat at all, she usually was a perfectly normal teenage girl. She was somewhat perky but never mean to Krinn. He was the only person that paid attention to that girl behind those distinguished glasses. He sighed at her response; however, he did wonder of that new sense he felt around her. It was no longer like she was a living, breathing, human being but a sinister person revolved around hatred. Kat smirked as she continued making her way passed Krinn to her penthouse. He was quite startled and just left it alone. ‘There is no reason to worry.’ he thought repetitively to himself. The darkness expelled itself from Kat’s body. Once out, it slammed the door shut before Krinn entered. It locked the door and let out a laughter, not of one happy but one ominous maybe even demonic. Krinn frantically banged on the door as he heard the laughter and Kat’s giggles, followed by the light in the room being absorbed. Again, it was all dark as Krinn pounded harder, he was heard but not acknowledged.

“KAT-KUN! OPEN THE DOOR! KAT…PLEASE!” he begged, continuing to pound about the door. He drew more attention than he wanted. The neighbors all walked out of their apartments and penthouses to the what seemed insane teenage boy. The maintenance man walked by and Krinn with all his might pulled him aside.

“OPEN THIS DOOR! PLEASE…” he shouted at the man.

He got a look somewhat of his insanity but the man opened the door. When he did, he found Kat laying on the ground. The Darkness had created somewhat of an aura around her. It was floating above her like a cloud. However, Kat was giggling like a 5 year old at the playground. She was talking to it nonetheless, she looked 5 years old. Kat’s head turned her attention to Krinn, “Wanna play?”

Krinn felt a cold chill blow from the window as he saw Kat rise up. She had in her hands a porcelain doll with curly blond hair with a blue bow and blue eyes. She giggled like a giddy child happily to the window. She leaned over the ledge still giggling and dropped the doll. It soar down from the floors above and smashed when it hit the cement sidewalk. Kat turned to Krinn with an evil tooth-filled grin. “Oops…”she said, smirking wider. Krinn had never seen Kat this way at all, this was not her normality at all. He wished he didn’t feel the chill which kept him attentively staring at Kat. She went about her business like she did nothing and came back to the darkness. The darkness grew as it looked into the innocence of younger Kat, it seemed to feed off what energy grew around her. It seemed to make a loud suction sound when Kat screamed, falling to the ground, and out cold. The lights once again were restored, Kat was again 17 years old, and she seemed normal. She rose to her feet and saw Krinn gazing at her like some kid at the circus for the first time. She walked to him slowly as she adjusted her glasses. He slowly took one step back, then two, and out the door away from her.

“Krinn!” she called out, as he ran further down the hall.

Never once did she see fear in him, now she had. The darkness had scared the only man she loved away, what would be next? The darkness resumed its presence in the darkest corner of the penthouse, Kat’s bedroom. It seemed to only take shape and take hold of Kat around nightfall. Otherwise, it seemed to just gather energy from passing energy influxes and other feelings around town. Krinn’s fear only made it stronger as it could sense it making its presence through the window known.

Krinn ran down the sidewalk and down the street. His heart racing enough it seemed it was going to beat out of his chest. He wouldn’t turn back and look, he just kept running. He was almost home, just a few more blocks. When finally, he reached the stoop of his parents house, he placed his hand on the stone banister. He was huffing and puffing, he hadn’t stopped since he left Kat’s which was just a little over a mile away. His mother walked outside to find him there, his face pale, his blueberry-colored eyes just blank, and the look of fear written all of him.

“Krinn-san?” his mother questioned.

She felt her way around to the final step to Krinn’s face. His face was obviously soaked with rain and sweat.

“Come in now dear, you can’t catch a cold…you have exams,” his mother said, leading him to the front door.

Krinn walked fast up to his room and shut the door, locking it behind him. He turned all the lights and made sure the lights in the city below were still on. ‘Thank God…’ he said to himself as he rested upon his bed. His cold black hair lay on his pillow, which seemed to absorb all his sweat and soaked hair. ‘What was that?’ he thought with a loud sigh, he just laid beneath the fan. He watched the brown blades turn in their circular motion. It’s chill was unlike that of the chill he felt when he saw young Kat throw her doll out the window. ‘But why didn’t I see it? If it fell..’ he questioned his vision and what he saw. He sat there thinking more and more on it until his clock midnight, and he had a startling revelation-’Its an illusion!’ he exclaimed to himself, and decided to test his theory at school the next morning. He now thought he could have a way to save Kat. From what? He didn’t quite know yet, but he would get to the bottom of it.

The next day, Krinn left his house to find Kat standing on the sidewalk. He slowly made his way down the staircase, looking at her. He was still a little freaked out by last night’s strange happenings. This however, didn’t stop him from taking her in a secure embrace. She looked at him, smiling lightly, and let go of him. She walked down the sidewalk and began to mumble to herself. It seemed she might be plotting something. They shortly arrived at the school and Kat stood there staring. Krinn walked up to the door and opened it for her, as her body walked up to the threshold of the door. That’s when everything began to slow down in perpetual motion. She entered with her eyes glazed over, eyeballing her two least favorite students. They made eye contact with her and all you heard were two thuds. Their bodies hit the floor as Kat continued walking down the hall, Krinn stayed behind. He had his hands on the metal centerpiece of the doorway, watching her. Kat turned sharply into her Algebra class and went to the teacher, “Mr. Hizumi…two students are passed out.” she said, smirking evilly as she turned away from him. Krinn walked into the room shortly after, and drew everyone’s attention to the hall. Mr. Hizumi was beside the two unconscious students, frantically calling both their parents. Shortly after that, investigators began to show up. They looked at the bodies, searching for any physical evidence. While examining the female student, Yumi, they found a baby blue ribbon with a light blond hair strand. It looked as though it had came from the doll Kat had just previously thrown out the window. Could it be possible the darkness killed Yumi and also killed the male student, Miako? Kat felt an overwhelming sense of guilt as they continued to investigate until they called in the paranormal investigators. They had no physical evidence so they had to use what they believed could be supernatural evidence.

It was growing quite evident that the darkness was actually a form of Kat’s anger, jealousy, or her hate. The reason Yumi was dead didn’t seem quite that obvious, unless you bring out what happened years ago.

- – -FLASHBACK- – -
Kat and Yumi were at the playground playing in the sandbox when Miako came over. The three sat and built each of their own sandcastles, Miako’s being well rounded with a fort around it, Yumi’s the basic one with a draw bridge and mote, and Kat’s however, seemed to be a looming tower. The friends were just having a great time, giggling amongst themselves, when a dog appeared out of no where. It didn’t come close to the children, just watched them closely. As the dog sat there, it seemed to have red eyes that peeked from behind the bush where it was sitting. Maiko began to whisper to Yumi, “Knock over her castle…” Yumi was resistant at first it seemed because she’d argue back about how it was a bad idea and she didn’t find it necessary to do that. Miako became angry and kicked over his castle, scattering sand everywhere, and getting it all over Yumi’s pink dress and her eyes. The young girl became very angry as Kat sat entranced by this strange dog. “Fine!” Yumi exclaimed, kicking over Kat’s castle with an abrupt force. It took Kat’s attention away from the dog as it happened. She grew enraged and stood up, pushing over Yumi with such a force she fell backwards over the wood barrier of the sandbox. Yumi cried and yelped for help, she had busted her shoulder. Kat smirked evilly with a grin and looked at the girl. “Momma’s here…I’ll make you all better…” Kat said in an maniacal tone. Miako tried to interfere and get Yumi but Kat turned around and growled, “NO!” Maiko fell over too. He too, lie in pain, yelping for the teacher.
“Teacher…Teacher…”they cried and yelped. No one heard them, and soon there was silence, such a silence it was deafening. Kat picked up Yumi’s doll and smashed it to the ground, shattered pieces of porcelain scatter the grass around the sand box. As recess ended, Kat walked away, leaving them to their suffering.
- – -

Kat looked at Miako and Yumi’s bodies like the rest of the curious students that looked from the doorway. Her stomach in knots as one of the investigators turned to Kat giving her a strange look. “That girl, bring her here.” the investigator said, pointing at Kat. The teacher allowed Kat out of the classroom and to the investigators. They examined her closely, invading her personal space. Her eyes seemed to go blank again, and soon the two investigators dropped like Yumi and Miako. A large number of gasps from the other students began and then ended as they saw Kat. Her aura around her became a dark black and everyone began to scatter. A young girl began to run towards Kat and entered her soul. Kat began to growl and throw a tantrum of a supernatural proportions. One student remained and looked at Kat strangely. The student tried to reach out and touch her, but once the hand hit Kat’s porcelain skin, the student dropped dead. It seemed whatever had possessed Kat was killing off people or anyone that was trying to help her.

A dark cloud formed in the hall and rain drops began to fall. Following that, a young girl appeared again before Kat. Instead of being with her physical being, it stood beside her.
“Now, kill that one.” it stated to Kat.

Kat smirked and soon the one person the young girl wanted dead, fell to the ground into a puddle. The rain that mysteriously began ended. It was now quiet and all of the students in the classroom eyeballed Kat strangely. She walked towards the class, only to have them shut the door and lock it. They now feared her and her little girl counter part. The young girl was still beside Kat, carrying with her a red rubber ball. She bounced it up and down, letting the sound echo around the whole entire school. It seemed everyone was squared away and totally frightened. Kat smirked and just walked out the door, the little girl followed. This little girl had jet black hair, violet eyes, and seemed very white in skin color. Whatever it wanted to do, Kat would do. Was this another minion of the darkness? Far from it, it was Kat’s inner-child. Kat walked to her old Primary school and sat down on the swing. Her inner-child sat in the sandbox, playing with her ball. It was no longer bouncing, it was floating. Seems this child product of Kat was telekinetic. It played with the other children well until a young boy named Timmy tried to take her ball. “NO! MY BALL!!” the girl exclaimed, and Timmy fell out of the sandbox with a glare of the girl. The boy cried as he laid on the grass with many scratches from the wooden border. He cried loudly and when he tried to get up, the girl pushed him over again. “NEVER TOUCH MY BALL AGAIN!” the girl, said with such a force it scared Timmy more. Timmy left the box and ran all the way to the basketball court, sitting safely by the teacher.

Kat looked at the child product and nodded at it. It just kind of gave her this look of the uttermost deceit. It smiled at her with a smirk and lightly moved towards her, sitting beside her. The girl held herself around Kat’s arms like she was a daughter, not some child product. She lightly shifted her head side to side, allowing her blonde curls to bounce. Kat looked down at the girl noticing her baby blue ribbon was torn. It sent thousands flashbacks all at once to Kat’s mind of what they found in Yumi’s hand. The bell then rang for school to let out and before 20 minutes could pass, Krinn showed up. He saw Kat playing with the girl, doing one of those girl hand games.
“Candy apple on a stick…” they chanted, as Krinn sat amused.

Krinn looked at the little girl, it reminded him of the doll Kat had in her room. She had always kept it on the top shelf and in high regard, like it was some kind of family emblem. The girl giggled and laughed as it sat there facing Kat. She smiled as Kat lost every time, until Krinn suddenly moved, and he had attracted himself to their attention, “Someone’s here…” The young girl said, lightly pointing in Krinn’s direction.

“That’s Krinn, Sophie…he’s my boyfriend.” Kat replied with a giggle.

He just stood there, trying not to make Kat angry by his presence. “Umm…hello Kat.” he said with a shaky voice. He was more afraid to talk to her than the first night he saw her make friends with the darkness. Everything seemed normal because, Kat usually is one to laugh and have fun. The only thing strange was the young girl named “Sophie” that seemed to be around her now. The dog that Krinn had seen before it morphed into the darkness, could never be seen. It seemed it was either in a figure of a girl or a cloud of monstrous hate. The first time Kat saw it, it was in the shape of a girl with long black hair and blue eyes. Then after she gained its’ trust enough not to kill her, it morphed into a dog. Dogs are considered man’s best friend, but shortly after that it had became like the doll. This struck Krinn’s curiosity, so instead of hanging around the playground, he went to Kat’s apartment.

When he arrived, it seemed the place was as clean as before. He had to step over a few things here and there, when he eventually arrived to the attic door, he opened it. There were old tethered boxes and photo albums everywhere. Krinn decided to search through the albums, nothing but old photographs of Kat and her parents. He slammed the first one to the ground, creating a dust cloud. Sliding out came a picture of 4 people. It was Kat, her mother, father, and a little girl. The little girl looked like Sophie and the doll. This was quite unusual circumstances, but Krinn decided to flip the photograph over to see the names. It read off as follows: Kat-5, Mom, Dad, and little Sophie-2. Krinn’s eyes widened as they focused on the last name in the list. It was like he was in utter confusion or shocked it was the little girl Kat was just saying was her best friend. This little girl wasn’t Kat’s inner-child, more so a ghost of some sort. There were papers in the little area where the picture had slid. It was an old newspaper clipping, it stated: “Young girl, Sophie Nakamura-Myamouto dies in drowning at Hakumi Bay.” As he continued to read he was shocked by one detail: “Authorities are lead to believe the older sister, Kat Nakamura-Myamouto, aged 5, drowned the toddler…” Krinn’s eyes widened more as he looked at that sentence repetitively.

The sentence just seemed to silence him. It’s like it had this way of captivating whomever read it, drawing unwanted attention to it. Krinn stuck the paper clipping in his coat pocket and left the attic. Once he reached the bottom step, Kat stood right in front of him. She looked at him with an angry smirk.

“What were you doing up there Krinn?”, she growled.

He stood silent in fear and stuck his hand into the coat pocket and pulled out the brown paper. He looked at Kat, “You did this, you killed your sister.” Kat gulped lightly, you can see her swallow the spit as it went down. He eyeballed her as she stood there silent but smiling. She nodded up and down with the smirk still stuck to her face. Sophie came up behind Kat and grabbed her hand. “Now it’s your turn…” Kat said as evil as she could. She pushed Krinn’s body to the ground and proceeded to get on top of him. Sophie handed Kat a silver dagger from inside her white stocking. Kat looked at him dead in his eyes and chuckled, stabbing him violently. Over and over again the dagger entered and exited the body. Blood began to accumulate on the dagger, causing a great puddle beneath Krinn. She laughed out loud, spreading the blood which was on her hands, all over the wall. Leaving behind handprints as she dug it into him, his eyes began to get lifeless. She snickered evilly and got up off him, lightly placing the knife beside her. She watched the blood form on the floor and leaned down near Krinn’s ear, whispering, “Krinn…you can wake up now.” Krinn’s last words were uttered, “Wake…up….?”

“KRINN! WAKE UP! TIME FOR SCHOOL!” his mother called, as Krinn rose up out of bed. He was breathless and covered in a cold sweat.

“It was just a dream, only a dream..” he said, catching his breath as he looked at the clock, its green numbers saying,”8:15a.m.”

You can read more of Courtney’s work at: http://allpoetry.com/smurf

He was a scout.

He could have been an officer but he made his choice years ago. He had no interest in being an officer and his job as a scout kept him as far away from officers as possible and for a majority of the time. He had been in this business for a great many years as evident from the braid and stripes on the underarms of his Blue uniform.

Years ago, long before his birth, it was decided that ranking should not be so visible. It could be seen now only if a person stood right in front of another person and even then you could still prevent people from seeing the ranking. It was a good system and he enjoyed the rare occasions when he got to flash his underarms. This was one of those times.

He had been called to the Blue command tent. As he entered the camp he saw how few of them had survived. He could see the aftermath of a very recent battle. A defeat no doubt. He, of course, had been somewhere else scouting. He followed the discreet signs to the command tent – an old code that had never been broken. Or so he assumed as he had never heard otherwise and never heard about a command tent being specifically attacked.

He flashed his rank markings and gave his name to the guard outside the command tent. The guard had just passed the enthusiasm of youth and had not yet settled into the comfort of veteranhood.

“What happened?” the scout asked.

At this the guard got suspicious and lightly touched his belted pistol.

The scout again flashed his rank markings. “I’m a scout.”

The guard relaxed. “I’m probably not suppose to say this but the Maroon boys ground us into little bits.”

The scout nodded. He had seen the effects in the camp.

“The command tent’s been reviewing the whole battle for the last two days,” the guard said, “discussing some Maroon master strategist.” The guard described in great detail the battle; he had been in the fight and had also eavesdropped at his post for the last two days.

The scout started to get an idea why he had been called but did not let his thoughts weigh too heavily. After all, these were officers and, beyond that, command officers. Who knows if they actually lived in the same universe as the rest of the world?

The scout nodded at the guard. The guard called out in a soft firm voice: “Scout Specialist reporting as ordered.”

There was a grunt from the command tent that both the scout and the guard interpreted as permission to enter. The guard held open the tent door and the scout entered.

Inside the tent all the command officers clustered around a table covered in maps. Though most of their rank markings were obscured, from what the scout could see and who he recognized from his long career, the scout figured that all of command were huddled in this tent. Apparently, the Maroons really hadn’t cracked the code to the location of the command tent.

The scout was handed a picture. “This is the Maroon commander that made us eat dirt,” said an old familiar face.

The scout saw the other commanders frowning at the phrase but said nothing. Then he saw the old familiar commander was missing a rank mark. Apparently the other commanders had already spoken their piece. It was nice to see that, in the midst of the aftermath of a crushing defeat, the command structure still had time to place blame and demote.

“Something must be done,” said a baby-faced commander, echoed in nods from the rest of the command except the one with whom the scout was familiar. As if a scout had no idea of how a war works.

“A sniper attack should do it,” said the old familiar face.

After long experience, the scout had stilled his mental remarks from becoming public: “Are you insane? Sniping an enemy commander, not in battle, and a labeled master strategist? I know, I’ll send him a note inviting him for tea.”

The other commanders took the scout’s silence for stupidity or perhaps cowardice. But the old familiar face knew what it was and grinned. He said to the scout, “This Maroon commander takes walks in a forest clearing just beyond the no-man’s land at dusk.” The scout was handed a Maroon uniform – a lowly private by the rank markings. “Wear this.”

The baby-faced commander gestured the scout to a map. “Here’s the defense map of our side of no-man’s land and what we know of theirs.”

The scout quickly memorized the map: mines, chemical traps, and other nasty stuff. This is what made him such an excellent scout, the ability to quickly assimilate maps and terrain and apply the knowledge to survival.

It was clearly the end of the meeting; the scout waiting to be dismissed and the old familiar face about to open his mouth when one of the baby-faced commander’s cohorts said, “This mission is absolutely vital. Failure is not an option. You’re dismissed.”

As the scout left the tent and nodded to the friendly guard, he could only think that this was further proof that he was glad he had never become an officer. Something about being an officer must fry a person’s brains so he can only state the obvious.

Just outside the camp, the scout changed into the Maroon uniform. He belted on a pistol even though it was not standard for a lowly private to carry one; the scout always figured better safe than sorry. The scout removed his sniper rifle from its hiding place and attached all the extensions for an extra long shot.

The scout crept into the no-man’s land with heavy fog blanketing the area. He wove his way through the Blue traps of his own side and went as far as he could into the Maroon-trapped area. Lying down in a sniper prone position, he lined up his rifle scope with the forest clearing and waited for dusk.

He was patient, a veteran. Although he much preferred his scout duties, he was no untried greenie as a sniper.

Dusk approached and the fog shifted away from the forest clearing. It looked to be close to perfect conditions for a sniper shot.

And then a figure in Maroon walked into the clearing. The scout could not yet definitely identify that this was his target as the Maroon paced back and forth. Finally the Maroon stopped pacing and sat on a tree stump. Now the scout could confirm that this was his target. The scout waited to ensure that the Maroon was not about to move. The scout lined up the shot just as the Maroon turned his head to the side leaving the scout with only a profile at which to fire. But this was no problem for the scout, and so he pulled the trigger.

At that moment the scout saw something impossible in his scope. The target had turned his head back so that the scout could again see the target’s face. The target was no longer the Maroon that he had been shown the picture of but himself, the scout! Somehow he, the scout, sat on that tree stump.

The scout dropped his sniper rifle and sprinted to the forest clearing – praying he’d dodge Maroon traps, running on pure adrenalin, something he had not done since a young, green scout. He made it to the forest clearing just as the bullet hit the target/himself/the person’s head. The scout drew his pistol and nudged the body over. The body’s face was completely gone – the scout had no clue whether he had impossibly shot himself.

Two Maroon figures dashed into the clearing carrying automatic weapons. The scout was outgunned and did not bother to fire at the Maroon men. The scout only hoped they would be merciful when they figured out he had killed their master strategist commander.

One of the men, hopelessly young and slightly out of breath, said, “Commander, are you alright? We heard a gunshot.”

The scout thought: “Are you insane? Your commander is lying on the ground.”

The two Maroons were not looking at the body but at him as if he, a Blue scout in a stolen Maroon uniform, were their commander.

Something impossible was going on. The scout drew in a breath and thought: “I guess I’m the commander of these Maroons.”

The scout-now-commander said, “A Blue in a stolen Maroon uniform snuck through the no-man’s land and tried to kill me.”

Only now did the two Maroons look at the body. The other Maroon, a veteran and someone apparently quite familiar with the Maroon commander, said, “I told you, Commander, it’s too dangerous for you to be walking in this clearing. I know you said you needed to get away to think but now your safety has been compromised.”

The scout-now-commander allowed himself to be herded between the two Maroons into the Maroon camp. It was a healthy camp with few wounded, not like the Blue camp, and, as he walked, he noticed the stiffening of soldiers as he passed – the coming to attention when a well-respected commander walks by. All of these Maroons thought he was a Maroon commander. Flashing his rank markings to himself, he saw they were no longer the markings of a lowly private on the uniform he put on earlier today. They were the markings of a very high-ranking and well-decorated commander.

His two Maroon bodyguards escorted him to what he assumed was the Maroon command tent. On the way he did not recognize the codes to a command tent, although in truth he had not been looking so hard. He entered, and the commanders in the tent all came to attention.

“Clear your head, sir?” one commander said in tones of an subordinate talking to a superior and desperately hoping the superior knows what to do.

He nodded and moved to the table. On it lay maps of incomplete plans of a battle. The same battle that had decimated the Blues two days ago.

He now understood what was happening – at least as far as he could. This was a he that had not stayed a scout but had become an officer, a command officer. All the other commanders in the tent looked at him for a plan. What could he do? Just this morning he was a Blue scout. Could he really turn his back on the Blues and plan a Maroon victory? Looking around the tent, he realized he had to do this. Somehow, someway, he had become a Maroon and the Maroons needed him – they were his people now.

He took a deep breath and moved forward. He explained his plan of attack based on what the Blue guard told him about the battle two days ago and the map of the Maroon side of no-man’s land he saw earlier. A brilliant plan – the other commanders were in awe. “We strike at two hours before dawn,” he said. After all the commanders completely understood the plan, they dispersed to inform their own subordinates.

He laid down to sleep after informing his guards not to wake him, not even during the battle. Although he was now a Maroon commander and the Maroons were his people, he had no desire to see the Blues slaughtered.

He awoke late in the afternoon to murmuring outside his tent. He granted entrance, and the grinning faces of his commanders greeted him. Everything had gone according to plan – an amazing victory. He toured the camp, visiting the few wounded. Almost all of the wounded were on the Blue side.

His commanders begged and pleaded for two days that they should follow up on the victory and crush the remnants of the Blue army. But he could not allow it; he had killed all the Blues he could stomach. Near dusk of the second day, he informed his bodyguards that he was going for a walk alone to clear his head. They protested but he finally wore them down. No doubt they would still be close to him though hidden.

He walked until he came to a forest clearing, the perfect place to think things over. He paced, reviewing the ethics of what he had done. The Maroons needed him to be a Maroon master strategist commander so he gave that to them, ignoring that a short while ago and for most of his life he was a Blue scout.

He felt dizzy so he sat down on a tree stump. Suddenly he heard the sound of a long-range sniper shot.

He turned his face to the bullet.

You can follow Yael on Twitter at: http://www.twitter.com/MillerMosaicLLC

I looked into your eyes and saw mine;
The countenance on your face sent me traveling back in time;
The love that poured from your heart reminded me of another;
It was the same love I had shared with my mother;
On a hot, muggy, August morn my mother went away;
My age was young and tender, but I can still clearly remember that day I woke to a world that suddenly felt enormously big and round;
And I, like the tiniest ant, now seemed to small to ever be found;
I wondered how or if I would again have a place where I belong;
For my mother was gone, my life no longer had its song;
Then I woke early one magnificent morn to a brand new world;
One filled with hopes and dream meant just for this little girl;
So, I dug in my heels and went searching for all I could discover;
Eager to see what possibilities lay ahead, each I wanted to uncover;
The road I traveled surely was not easy;
There were many dips twists bumps and curves;
Many times I nearly quit, many times I nearly lost my nerves during those dark scary moments when it didn’t feel much like i was winning;
But with an iron will and soul full of hope, I leaped in and sent myself spinning on a journey with no light, no map, not direction sign
Just sheer determination to find the life destined to be mine;
Though I’m much older, there still remains much more work to, and on the very top of my list was to write this poem just for you;
To leave a message that I pray you’re always keep close in mind;
For as you travel your life’s journey, you may face a string of endless struggles;
But if you refuse to give up, refuse to quit each and every time;
One bright early morn, you too, will rise beneath a sea of stars to find that we not only share a story with a familiar beginning, but with an Ending Of A Similar Kind.

Visit E.D. Arrington’s website for more information on her writing: http://www.edarringtonbooks.com/

Frosted Flakes, or Wheaties. Cheerios are all gone: only two little o’s remain. The boxes are full of words like “Best” and “Brightest”. “Be all you can be”, that’s our army’s slogan. Tiger Woods ate the Wheaties, I wanna be like him. The tiger says his are “Grrrrrrreat!” I gotta be the best, brightest and fastest. And I wanna have my breakfast with some toast. The toaster is on the other side of the table. A real problem. I groan, and then come to my senses. I grab the small card table and wrench it sideways, knocking some silverware and the salt shaker on the floor. I made a mess, but I get the toaster.

Since my wife can’t help me, I help myself to the bread cooking machine. It takes too long to heat up so I pop it early and just stuff my face with cold rye. It is cold and it is rye. It is also dry. My mouth is full of this dry rye bread – I chew it loudly and my wife just scoffs.

I think she lied to me last night. I think she lied for me last night. Last night in bed I dreamed of rye bread. This morning has fulfilled my wild dreams of the night before. Have you ever woken up from a dream just to have the dream fulfilled?

I had to.

I had to buy my wife’s lie. Eat it up like I was eating the toast. We don’t always talk when we go to bed together. Sometimes we just lay there and dream before we nod off to dream. It seems that we wish for things. Me and my toast. Her and her lie. That’s all it was, a little white lie. What does a white lie mean in the midst of life. Ask me, or ask my wife. My wife will tell you it means a great deal. That Honesty is important. That Honesty is secure, safe, binding, and sure. Honesty is all of these things. Ask me and I will say that a white lie in life is like a piece of cold rye toast and an opened salt shaker on the floor.

I beat my wife to the floor that day. She was going to clean up the spill, but I insisted. I got there before her. She had a rag – but I had my napkin. How unexpected was I that morning? You see, I rarely get a napkin to eat my Wheaties, or my Frosted Flakes. But that morning was different. She was about to clean the mess – but I beat her to it. I got there first. I made the mess, and I would clean the mess. I didn’t really need her there. Not for that. What is a white lie in the midst of life? It is only a small mess that I can clean up myself…that, and a cold piece of toast.

After dropping the salt, I thought it was like losing a part of myself. We are all made of salt. ‘From ashes to ashes and dust to dust’. What about ‘from salt and to salt we shall return’? I thought maybe we were all just a little white lie in the midst of some one else’s life. I have now given up my salt, and lost my dust.

Before I go to work in the morning I have a kind of ritual. I suppose we all do. I do. My wife does, and I do. I remember my parents having their own morning ritual, so I suppose we all do. I step in the shower, and then back out. I forget my toothbrush. I keep my toothbrush in the cabinet – but I brush my teeth in the shower. So I need to remember to take my toothbrush in the shower. Kills two birds with one stone, I say. My wife won’t shower with me because I brush my teeth. I thought she was strange when we married, but the longer you live with someone the more you learn to love them. Her ritual begins with cleaning up after me (except for that one morning) and then avoids me in the bathroom. She won’t even come into the adjacent bedroom if I’m still getting ready. She complains about the steam and my singing. Of course she compliments my singing on occasion. I think it just depends on what song I sing that morning. This talk is tiresome – no one wants to hear about how I brush my teeth after cleaning up after myself.

My morning ritual progresses, as does my wife’s (and everyone else’s I suppose). I head off to work and the rest of the day is rather uneventful. Not to suggest that nothing exciting ever happens, but just to say that I’ve gone on about my day too much already. I want to talk about THAT day. Just THAT day. When I ate Wheaties and Frosted Flakes because the Cheerios were all gone except for two. If you can understand that day then you may believe me when I say I have seen the CHILD of MERCY and MERIT. It was a circumstance that day. Something happened that changed my world. That changed my wife’s world. It was OUR world really, and what changed was between us. We were visited that day, though we never fully introduced ourselves. Our visitor came and left, like visitors tend to do, but ours left us with a gift.

Whoever came and went left us feeling silly. Stars silly. That is, so silly that we felt we were seeing stars. I dropped the salt and lost my dust. She came to help and I helped myself. At first it seemed like an act of rejection, and hers of retaliation. But when all was said and done I looked at her fine curves. How she filled out that dress very nicely. How she moved with grace and her shadow had trouble keeping up appearances with the real deal. My wife. So lovely, even if she did what she did. How could she stand it at all? Why hadn’t she left me yet? Not that we ever fought – not really. Not that there were ever harsh words between us. Or threats, or fists, or fires of passion. I had swallowed my toast, but I wanted a second helping now. Honesty is brutal.

My wife, the queen of bees. She could have had her pick right out of high school, but she held out for me. We didn’t meet until we were both out of college. What does that mean? I mean – I wasn’t likely to meet anyone, and her…she could have had them all. But we met each other and now we were here together. The queen of bees and the jack of trades. But what could I do for her? The answer that came to me was my brain child. An idea so inspired that I think it was also left for me by our visitor. Something just for me. Just for me to give to her. I brushed my teeth before getting in the shower that morning. She knew about it too, because she passed through the bedroom that morning. Maybe that was her gift to me. Another chance. She saw me and I her. We both knew that my morning ritual had been set aside. And after that we made love and I called in sick to work. We wanted to spend all day together, but after our passionate throws we knew it was kind of like the salt and toast. Except maybe it was a little better that morning, after the sex. Though we didn’t spend all day together it felt like we did. She said she had urgent business in the office and couldn’t just call in sick. This was the real world and the real world needed her. I told her I understood – and that morning I think I did.

What did I do all day? It was like lying on a bed of nails. Not necessarily fatal, but if you try and get comfortable it makes things worse. She came home, and we saw each other again. We could still tell. That morning hadn’t been a dream. There was still something between us. Given to us by our visitor. Maybe the world didn’t change because of it – but something did, something just between us. Honesty is indirect. My wife may have lied to me the evening before, and she may do it again. But not every night, and I love her for it.

The only other spectacular thing about that day was my dream. Not the dream I had while I slept, but I’ll tell you I met my wife that night. It was before that, when we laid down together and just breathed beside each other. We dreamed before we fell asleep. I couldn’t tell what she was dreaming, but I’ll tell you mine. I dreamed of the Honesty between us. What did it mean to me? Honesty is a one way ticket to the deepest part of a person’s soul. It is a dark ride, and I have found myself frightened by it. But I ride the train and stare out the black window until the daylight comes back. Dark windows also provide a good reflection, but I did not turn away. I looked into the window anyway, seeing myself in the dark. The shadows beyond took shape and I saw a bird. A Crane. A beautiful bird that swooped down to the ground. It was flying. No, it was falling and it was lying. The bird of lies was headed for the ground and there might not have been enough air to slow it’s descent. I wanted to scream out. To tell it to stop, to break its own fall. But that is not Honesty. So I prayed. Move into the fast lane, Crane. Die quickly, Dye your feathers red. Do not stop, do not hesitate, do not think that you can save yourself but give in. If death awaits you, be Honest.

My dream got me sweating a little bit, and my hand started to shake. My wife grabbed hold of my hand and I was able to stop, and sleep throughout the night.

Twenty minutes later, after finishing breakfast on a warm and sunny Friday morning in mid-April, Kathy DiScala was getting her kids ready for homeschool, when she suddenly heard a knock on her door. “I wonda who that is this early in the mornin!” Kathy asked in her heavy Brooklyn accent as she went to answer the door. She was wearing a bright yellow bathrobe with a matching towel over her head, as she called out to her two kids, “Jake, Kelly, get started on your schoolwork right now!”

“Mrs. DiScala?” a huge burly bald man had asked.

“Yeah! Whatta ya want!” Kathy responded sarcastically.

““I’m Joseph Green, the attendance officer for the Santa Monica School District. I’d like to come in and talk to you.”

“What about? I’m busy right now!” Kathy once again responded sarcastically.”

“I want to talk to you a bout your kids. They’ve not been in school for the last month. Why aren’t you sending them to school?”

“Because me and my husband don’t wanna. We’re homeschoolin our kids. We did it in Noo Yawk and now we’re doin here in California. Here, why doncha come in and I’ll tell ya!” Kathy responded as she let Mr. Green in to her modest Spanish-style house.

Sitting on the bright yellow living room sofa, putting his attendance records down on the cobalt blue coffee table, Mr. Green then asked, “Mrs DiScala, what are your teaching credentials? Are you a licensed and certified to teach here in the state of California?

Kathy then angrily replied. “Why? What difference does it make?’

“A recent court decision here in California says any parent who homeschools their child has to either get the proper teaching credentials or else end them to school. It is my job enforce the state laws and the school district’s attendance policies! You cannot keep these kids sheltered forever. They need to interact with other children. They need professional guidance. They need to be inside of a classroom learning from a professionally-trained and qualified teacher. If you don’t get your kids back into school, you can be charged with truancy.”

“Listen, mistah!” Kathy continued. “Qualified teachers, my foot! My husband Don and I pulled our kids out of St. Margaret’s in Brooklyn because the nuns were smackin them around; especially Sister Jane. Yeah my son was misbehavin, so instead of calling me, Sister Jane popped him across the mouth with a yardstick. His mouth was bleeding so bad that he had to go to the hospital to get stitches. Well anyway, I marched right up to that school and told her that if she ever ever laid a hand on any of my kids again, I was gonna knock her old yellow rotten teeth out; and I don’t care if they send me to jail. Nobody puts their hands on my kids, and I mean nobody! And the principal there, Sister Mary, didn’t do a thing; she took Sister Jane’s side! But anyway, when my son came home that day, my husband and I really laid it on him Nobody touches my kids except me and my husband!”

Mr. Green was astonished! “I too went to the Catholic schools here in Los Angeles, and yes, I got cracked by a few of the nuns there, but I also had some good nuns there as well. Of course, this was back in the 60′s. But you just can’t blame one bad experience for keeping kids out of school, Mrs. DiScala.”

“Oh there’s more!” Kathy continued excitedly. “After we took them out of St. Margaret’s, we sent them to P.S. 29 in Brooklyn, and it didn’t get any better. The kids there were runnin around, fightin, cursin, nobody there to watch them. Some of them came to school with guns and knives. For Pete’s sake here we’re talking about young kids; first, second, third, fourth, and fifth graders; One day there was this big fight in the lunchroom. A whole bunch of black kids ganged up on this one white kid. When the teacher tried to break it up, this one black kid popped him in the mouth so hard that his gums bled My son Jake also got hit in the face with a chair. Me and another group of parents marched right down to that school and demanded to see the principal, but he was too busy to see us, and boy did I really freak out! He cares more about that No Child Left Behind act then about the safety and concerns our children”

Mr. Green, picking up his briefcase, interrupted, “Is it just the violence, Mrs. DiScala, or the academics that’s keeping your kids out of school?”

“Both.” Kathy responded. “My daughter has ADD, she reads at a first grade level, and the kids keep pickin on her. One day, during math class, she freaked out because she couldn’t do double-digit multiplication, and do you know what the teacher did? She locked her in the bathroom for two hours! Two full hours! She was screamin and cryin at the top of her lungs, but the teacher really didn’t care! My husband and I then marched up to the school and gave her a piece of my mind. And do you know what? She said and I quote ‘I don’t have time to deal with dummy students like your daughter! Put her in the looney bin!’ I told her that she had no right to do that to my daughter, and that I would be going to the principal’s office. He gave me the brush-off again, but this time I had enough. I screamed into his face ‘I’m takin my kids out of here and homeschoolin them. I don’t need this aggravation anymore! And I don’t care if you haul me and my husband off to jail; my kids will never ever set foot inside of a classroom again for as long as they’re living under my roof! You can take your federal and state regulations and shove them up your you-know-what! Me and my husband know my kids better than some stranger with a fancy-schmancy teaching degree!”

Mr. Green then interrupted, “Mrs. DiScala, how long have you lived here in California?”

“Five years.” Kathy responded. “My husband’s a big-shot entertainment lawyah! His law firm opened up an office right here in Beverly Hills. He wanted the big-time Hollywood clients and that’s why we came here.”

“How are you homeschooling your children, Mrs. Di’Scala?” Mr. Green asked.

“I got them in an online charter school up in San Francisco.” Kathy replied. They send me the books and videos that I need. I can play the video over and over until my kids get it right. They don’t pressure them to study: they study at their own pace. I don’t want them to be forced to learn anything. I send the lessons in; they grade them and they send them back. The only thing that I want my kids to know is English, reading, and math and that’s it.

Mr. Green then intervened. “Mrs. DiScala, I don’t know what the education laws are there in New York, but out here in California, these kids need to be in school. You know, I don’t make the laws here; I just follow them. They need to know every subject, not just English, reading, and math.”

“Mr. Green” Kathy responded. “Come look at my kids. Jake, Kelly, come over here for a minute.”

“What is it, Mom?” twelve-year-old Jake and ten-year-old Kelly asked as he came rushing over with his English book in his hand.

“This is Mr. Green from the school district.” Kathy continued. “Jake, show Mr. Green where Sister Jane popped you in the mouth.”

“She popped me right here.” responded Jake, as he showed Mr. Green the permanent scar that she left on his upper lip. And you see this scar on my left arm, this was from the pizza that hit my arm the day we were in the lunchroom when the fight broke out. I’ll never go back to school again!”

Then it was Kelly’s turn. “Mrs. Johnson locked me in the bathroom because I was cryin.”

“Who’s Mrs. Johnson, Kelly?” Mr. Green asked. “Was she your teacher back in New York?”

“Yes she was and she was a real meanie.” Kelly answered. “And she was a real meanie to my mom. She said to my mom that I was stupid. I’m so glad that I don’t have Mrs. Johnson. My mom is my real teacher and she doesn’t call me names like Mrs. Johnson. I like going to school at home./”

“OK kids, go back and do your schoolwork, and I’ll talk to you later.” Kathy commanded. She paused for a moment and then continued, “Did you see my kids there, Mr. Green? This is why I don’t want to send them to school. I don’t want them anymore messed up than they are now. They don’t have to worry about guns, drugs, knives, bullies, teachers and principals that don’t even care. My kids are precious to both me and my husband, and if anything ever happened to them, I would never forgive myself. My poor Kelly now has nightmares and I’ve been taking her to a psychiatrist. I just can’t let my kids suffer like this anymore.”

Picking up his brown briefcase, filled with attendance forms, Mr. Green gave informed Kathy, “I’m sorry, Mrs. DiScala, but you’ve got to get your kids back into school! This is California, and New York! I want you and your husband to fill out these forms and get them back into my office by Monday morning. And here’s my card. ‘

“I told ya me and my husband have already made our decision.” responded Kathy Our kids are not going to school and that’s final. Tell your boss to come over here and take me to jail. I’ll even give them medical proof of what the schools did to my kids!”

“Mrs. DiScala, you’re leaving me no other choice but to have a truant officer come out here. I’ve got to get back to the office now. Have a good day, ma’am.”

As Mr. Green left, Kathy then fumed, “The noive of that guy! Telling me that I need to send my kids to school Ya know what? I’m gonna run for office and do away with school taxes and forced schooling! Yeah! I’ll show these rotten politicians a thing or two! Why should I be forced to send my kids to school and pay school taxes in the first place? Education should be a privilege and not a right! And what a better time to do it than right now!”

As long as there is love, I will cherish you.
As long as there is life, I will love you.
As long as the stars shine above, I will want you.
As long as there are waves in the ocean, I will need you.
As long as there is heaven above, there will always be our love.

Love can sometimes be fresh.
Love can sometimes be new.
Love can sometimes make you happy.
And sometimes make you blue.

Love is the light that radiates from your eyes.
Love is your image floating in the skies.

Love is true.
And darling, the only love for me is you.

A knot forms in my throat
Try to swallow it, it’s stuck
Eyes holding their breath
To conceal tears
The blood courses through my veins
Cold shivers up spine and across body
Feet bounce impatiently
Heart drops to the pit of my stomach
Wanting,
Needing to release anxiety
No one to turn to nowhere to hide
Face in hands
Letting the tears fall slow at first
Gathering speed becoming continuous
Heaving deep ragged breaths
Sounds of my cries shaky with anguish
Can’t take this much longer
Pain and suffering of love and hate
Tasting the iron in my mouth
Blood finding its way out
Even blood wishes to escape
So I let it run
Wanting to see how far it will travel
Seeping from the corners of my lips
Warmth tracing down my chin then my neck
Looking up towards the so named heavens
Cursing its glory and gold
If there really was someone up there
Wouldn’t he stop my blood from running?
Wouldn’t he stop me from dieing?
I get no response my limp body
Drained of its red fruit falls to the floor
Cold hard linoleum offers no comfort.
No outreaching hands of pity
Instead the dark skin peeled hands emerge
From the creases of the tile and trace their shapeless
Tendrils across my body
Without my blood I feel nothing I stare at the ceiling
Motionless and alone as hands of the dead
Pull me under to the inner core
Of death, I sink into the blackness
Eyes remain open staring up above
A constant reminder to the gold and glory,
I’m down here waiting for you to finish my story.

Note: Due to the length, this poem is not eligible for our Poetry Contest. However, we wanted to share it nonetheless…

There comes a point in life when we all grow up
The loss of innocence,
Promises,
Heartbreaks,
Loss of loved ones,
High school,
Graduation,
It’s all a part of life,
Some may experience more than others but it’s what makes you, you
Don’t lose your morals and faith for the pleasure of others,
Keep your ground and hold your head high,
Show people you can be who you want to be and still succeed,
Sometimes there will be a fork in the road,
Take the path in which you feel you will succeed because if worse comes to worst
There’s always construction, you can make it back on that path of triumph,
It’s never too late,
You’ll learn from your mistakes and become more cautious as you continue on the path of life.

What is a dream?
The word dream is scrumptious,
Like the cotton candy held in the palm of your hand,
Realistic and loud,
Like the sticky situation if held to long,
Self knowledge weighing on you like a twenty-eight pound brick dropped from the sky,
Landing in the palm of your hands,
Preservation, the key to the long roads you’ll take,
Preparing yourself for what may or may not be,
Most satisfying to the mind like a cold winter’s day and a cup of hot chocolate,
Your future of life, or the death of your dignity,
Your goals set before you like a steaming brownie with a perfectly round scoop of vanilla ice cream on top, most delicious when reached for, your dream!

Just foolish, thinking I can be a perfect man
Look at my face masked wit incorrect thoughts
Or this body of mine… that has been bathed in self ignorance
Listen to the words I speak from the depth of my mouth that are not genuine but are instead dishonest and misleading
Or the loss look in my eyes… smothered with life’s tragedies
I’m just foolish, for there is only one who’s perfect
Why do I ache for approval from relatives and friends …, or, lust for acceptance from foreign faces
Where did I misplace my self respect, or bury my integrity
What would make me sacrifice my inner potency, for shame and guilt
Most times I feel lost in this abandoned house known as my Life
Unsheltered from self-hatred, adverse depression and redundant let downs
Yet, I find myself looking for a savior
Looking for someone to feel sorry for me
Yearning for compassion…, starving for unbeneficial pity
Chasing a mirage of a Perfect man
Left me scorn, drowning in a sea of hatred
For I forgot to accept myself, forgot to believe in myself… but most of all I forgot to love myself
I forgot to tell myself that as long as I give it my all

I’m am perfect, perfectly me as I can be

Blythe gale,
Peasants to hail,
Why canst thou fling free?
Soar over the churning sea in wild ecstasy?
Must you always salt my soars?
Bitter struggle tasted by scores
Inflicted by you, the curses rebound
Upon the shipwrecked Sound
Enslaving master and taskman alike
Oh, wild spirit, why not burst the dike
And fly home?
To roam
Frree

Read Jill’s Award winning poem:

Ship of Gold
© 2008 – Jill Eisnaugle

My heart is the captain for a ship of gold
Our mission is something special to behold
Together, my boat and I span the high seas
We ride through the turmoil with the greatest ease
Clear skies form to greet us and welcome our cause
There’s no hesitation found to bring us pause
So onward we go, though the dawn turns to night
Our destination firmly fixed in our sight.

Alas, we’ve seen struggles through which some would fail
But, my ship and I are destined to prevail
No rock ‘neath the surface or force from a wave
Could make us believe our course is not to save
My ship and I know what we can and can’t take
Such trust and assurance leaves calm in its wake
When the stars appear, come the moon’s brilliant glow
Toward our final port call, my ship and I go.

My heart is the captain for a ship of gold
Yet, found in the cargo, there’s something quite old
A masterpiece which has lived through tests of time
A gift for the ages, still well in its prime
Some call it a blessing, reserved for a few
Yet, when we dock portside, I’ll give it to you
The “gold” in my cargo is love, evermore
My dear, I will see you when I reach the shore.

To read more of Jill’s work, please visit: http://www.authorsden.com/jillaeisnaugle

Trees on the steep hillside
across the river will peak
within the next few days,
and if things follow precedent,
shed their impossible colors
soon after.
The zinnias did not mean
to let themselves get so shabby.
The old gray groundhog waddles
through the cosmos, fat and sleepy.
The children we named after purple
flowers have fled the house.
Our own bodies give in
to gravity more each day,
our bones slowly emerging.
We really used to be something,
didn’t we?

Life is rough
It has its roads
Some are hard
That’s a fact that I will always know
You see kids getting beaten
It is not a lie
For every night that I stayed up praying and wishing to die
Its sad
Yes I know that
But you have to understand that I am not bad
I love the Adirondack youth lodge
And I love the people in it
Its the best place to ever live at
So thanks guys for all the help

Ship of Gold
© 2008 – Jill Eisnaugle

My heart is the captain for a ship of gold
Our mission is something special to behold
Together, my boat and I span the high seas
We ride through the turmoil with the greatest ease
Clear skies form to greet us and welcome our cause
There’s no hesitation found to bring us pause
So onward we go, though the dawn turns to night
Our destination firmly fixed in our sight.

Alas, we’ve seen struggles through which some would fail
But, my ship and I are destined to prevail
No rock ‘neath the surface or force from a wave
Could make us believe our course is not to save
My ship and I know what we can and can’t take
Such trust and assurance leaves calm in its wake
When the stars appear, come the moon’s brilliant glow
Toward our final port call, my ship and I go.

My heart is the captain for a ship of gold
Yet, found in the cargo, there’s something quite old
A masterpiece which has lived through tests of time
A gift for the ages, still well in its prime
Some call it a blessing, reserved for a few
Yet, when we dock portside, I’ll give it to you
The “gold” in my cargo is love, evermore
My dear, I will see you when I reach the shore.

To read more of Jill’s work, please visit: http://www.authorsden.com/jillaeisnaugle

For what I know and what I’ll be
I will remember I was he
Who knew of what was in the sea,
For know I this and know I well
That I was on the wall, then fell.
And had you seen me stumble on
When night encountered what was dawn
Then know I this and know I well
That though I stumbled, though I fell,
I will remember I was he
Who knew when what was known of me.
For though the dark descends to claim
The very mention of a name,
I will remember I am he
Who sees the dark fall in the sea.
For battles rage and this I know-
That though I know not what you know,
Still I am here throughout the year
To settle down when I will fear.
And should a day proclaim me dead,
Still I remember what was said
When I remember what was bled
When I remember I was dead.