death is a four letter word

i do not have a crystal ball. there are no tarot cards disguised beneath the pale silk scarves which lay unremembered in the bottom of pine-scented drawers. no books of witchcraft or sorcery line the whitewashed shelves of the boards by the bright open window and i do not seek the high whisper of magic in the voice of psychics or mages. yet i know bone-deep the future.

perhaps this is why the hunger for tragedy so chases the traffic of my veins, always one step behind my sunny disposition. it is there, though few see it and none understand. i seek sadness. like the wilted petals of summer-soaked gardens i find peace in the quiet of death. words which break and drown in the tears of their reader are my solace and i weep in the beauty of faded ink, of prose and poetry and script fit to line the most magnificent of coffins.

for that is where he shall be. my love, my heart, my breath. nine years past i stood in the shadow of fifteen candles and when i wished i wished that my future may not be so. i clenched my fist to the blast of the hot north wind which extinguished the twinkling orange teardrops in my stead and so i knew there was no hope. still the silver casket reigned in my dreams.

and maybe that is why i have never really been in love. i fear it for i know it shall be as fleeting as the midsummer night and painful as ten million pricks beneath my skin. but i will fall one day. one day when pink gumdrops tickle sour on my tongue and the sun catches the blades of grass just right i will give up my soul while he laughs and brushes his mouth against mine and is never the wiser. in that moment i will not think of the things he will miss, how he will never have grey hair, or caress the golden head of his grandchild; he will never stop to face his reflection and count the wrinkles of life around his eyes. but he will not see the falter of my smile and i will kiss him while he twists my heart around his so that when death comes, endlessly will i whisper to the pieces left behind, pieces wound too tight to ever be found by the darkest and most wicked of angels.

DNA UFO's

Bleakly the sky weeps dark rain, grey shadows swirling in the thick mist. It is a storm of epic proportions, they say, although who "they" are I can't be sure. But the clouds don't stop rolling in and soon enough crowds gather to watch what may never again come in their lifetime, hoping to catch a glimpse of the unidentifiable objects that appear like flashes against the veil of the black wind.
His truck is old, and the radio skitters with a scratchy annoucement, a call to arms for all to the local Publix, the End of the World Sale beginning in mere hours. Kurt Vandergross (the actor) sits in the driver's seat, this man whose face I know not but whose soul is near to mine. My heart says that he is Ben Robbins, so well does he know me, but I sit confounded by the way I feel about him. Are we in love? I realize as our conversation is sliced by the radio that we have been speaking of such matters, but now we press onwards to the grocery store, urgent to prepare for an impending catastrophe.
The roadside is full of spectators, lawn chairs staked, quilts spread on the muddy ground as hundreds wield binoculars and cameras, oohing and aahing as the sky brightens intermittently with glowing symbols. And then, I am struck. Down from the murky grey spin two strands of DNA, like white-hot jellyfish against the weeping sky. They are larger than life, gigantic, and I am sure that Ben sees them. I try to call for him, want him to see so that I know I am not insane, when one strand grows tiny enough to slip through the crack in my window and onto the skin of my arm. I am branded. It does not hurt, but in the moment that the incandescent creature lays hold of me, I am transported to a strange land.
All about me are people with faces like animals, with clothes like royalty and hands like humans. I am their princess, my coronation moments away. My father stands before me, the fur of his face brown and grey, his snout wolf-like and cold.
"Jiiiklyii swaa henslubrath," he says to me, and I know this language in my heart, understand that he is telling me that now it is up to me to save their land and their people, that I must not fail my mother while she lies in her grave in wait. My dress flows like silk around my human body, but in a far-off mirror I can just see the outline of my face; I am anything but human. I am not afraid, only ready, and I accept my father's words with an iron will, prepared to do something in this life that I might not have had the courage to do in the other. But just as I turn to address the people I am sucked back into the world of UFOs and thunderstorms.
Ben is fiddling with the radio and I realize that what seemed like hours has only been seconds, and the Publix looms closer. The sleeve of my shirt covers my upper arm, but the mark still shows through, a bright strand of white DNA covering my skin like a pulsing tattoo. The parking lot is full but the store is dark and empty, and the line of nearly two hundred people outside the door is growing restless. Yelling ensues, threats against whoever is playing a prank at a time like this when suddenly a meek man is there before the crowd.
"You heard an annoucement on the radio?" He asks quietly, as though no one is really meant to hear him. When met with a resounding yes from all present he says matter of factly, "Then it really is true. You are the Chosen Ones. Please, follow me."
I look at Ben and see fear in his eyes. I take his hand, tell him to trust me, but I know that I need him now more than he shall ever need me.
The interior is really no grocery store at all, rather a large room much like Congress, hundreds of plastic yellow chairs in a semi-circle, all facing a enormous mahagony podium in the center. We take our seats, and still I feel uncertainty in the heat of Ben's skin. Maybe it is a mistake to trust these people, but then again I'm the one who saw a potential future, who feels safe in the alien mark that now scars me. Ben has yet to find his place among them and I know I cannot begrudge him this - I can only hope for him.
A woman with hair like a strawberry meadow sunset whisks her way through the crowd, in and out of the spaces between the chairs, looking but not speaking. I whisper, suddenly, for no reason at all, in the language I spoke in that other world: "Lastteesh likong eeng."
The woman with the amber hair turns to me fiercely, her grey gaze like tearstained stone.
"Yes," she whispers back, in sheer wonder. "Yes, long live the king. You truly are one of the Chosen."
I feel Ben tighten beside me, anger and fear and pride sweeping through him and I am amazed that I can so pinpoint his emotion. It is then that I realize I possess a special power, one that enables me to secretly swim in the hearts and veins of others; it is better than reading minds, for I know somehow that with this power I can rule or ruin mankind.
I look at the woman, meet her tombstone eyes.
"I am ready."


And then I woke up.

trying something new...

Midsummer midnight
We swim in milky moonbeams
Mountain wind
On the glass of our skin
And grass
Our verdant vessel

Two wishes
We throw to the purple-ink sky
Too silent
For our fears are not compliant
To the
Fences of our hearts

I feel
The heat of his smile
Finger lifted
To point how the moon shifted
Dancing stars
A company of players

Painfully aware
In the crook of his arm
Sweet religion
Of pure first love my competition
Plastic smiles
My aching solace

My fingers
Tread the patchwork ocean
Our quilt
Heavy with the heartbroken silt
That sinks
Like lead in my blood

If only
The sky were the ocean
If only
The heart never got lonely
If only
I were dead

Black Snow

The white dress hugs her tightly, her breath shallow as a baby bird's. She moves forward but something is wrong; at her feet lies scattered money. Thousands upon thousands of sketchy green presidents stare up at her as she grips her lillies, shuffles through the flimsy paper sea. It is a tragic waste. Someone should have told her money can't buy love.
They wait for her now on the other side of the stone walls, and they watch her when the doors swing open, rows of blurred smiles, faceless bodies. The organ plays in time with her first step into hell.
"One, two, sway to the macabre rhythm."
It beats whispers into her blood, "The end now is nigh, turn back to save your life."
Blinded by a lightening flash she expects to hear the dooming crack of thunder. She realizes it's only the photographer, begging for her plastic smile, hiding behind his own dead eyes. His job has made him privy to sad secrets. He knows the real end to this beginning.
The sweet baritone of the man whose arm she grips vice-like murmurs incoherently, like the babble of a brook as it smooths away granite, wears the rocks to weakness.
"Daddy, save me!" But no, not out loud, this is only in her mind, and the quiet words still try to soften her hard defense.
Another step and her arm grows heavy, third finger, left hand weighed suddenly with a diamond padlock and she chokes in fear to discover the key she once wore around her neck is turned to dust.
Her steps turn leaden, but Father pulls her forward to the end, to another faceless blur. Except for his eyes. Obsidian, they bear into her, needles on her skin, but Father doesn't see. His kiss upon her cheek is like a teardrop, there and gone, eternity ever after changed with a brush of pale pink lips.
The one with the black eyes takes her hand, cold iron shackles disguised as fingers and no matter how she inconspicuously tries to relieve the burning in her bones, he releases not his grip.
Now before the minister, he hums in his drolling tone what must be the vows, though the words are different than she remembers.
"Repeat, repeat, die or retreat," fall faster and faster to the now-shifting ground below. She is alone with the Iron Man, red desert on all sides, sun high, death nigh, the way the whispers promised.
A child's laughter crackles on the air and in the distance a small girl stands, chained, the metal raw on her dainty skin.
"Who is she?" echoes off the indigo sky until the sharp clink of steel sounds and she sees the chain is hooked to the heavy padlock adorning her hand. Out of the child's mouth suddenly flies a calendar bigger than the noon-day sun. Details are scrawled illegibly across every single date, "Infinity" stamped where once the month appeared.
She looks to the man with her for explanation but sees only boredom in his listless gaze. He seems to look right through her and yet somewhere deep inside she knows he must have loved her long ago, when the Paris river caught the moon and chocolate still stained her lips. He is fading before her very eyes, and even while she wonders why she reaches for him. But it is too late.
Gone are the man and the child and the desert, the maid alone on a canyon's precipice, waving goodbye to the ship that holds her dreams as it sails on the wind. She is left with only her tears, poisoned rivulets running down the snow of her dress, blackness in their wake.

Saffron sun showers her room with golden glitter as the light peeks through the leaves of the wind-blown oak tree.
She awakens.

It is the dawn of her wedding day.

Solemn Sentinels, Stealthy Succubus

The church is airy, the stained glass brilliant with afternoon sunlight and pew after pew of stoic patrons bask in the pulpit's gentle message. A loud pop, and the great wooden doors split in two, crazed sentinels at attention behind the shattered entrance. In they march, two by two, bayonets pointed into horrified faces, confusion etched in every line of their expression.
At the colonel's command, the soldiers give a cry and release the death they hold in their hands. Screams and dissipation ensue as under the wooden pews roll tubes of lethal gas. The guards wear masks, solemnly taking the death toll as one by one the innocent fall into everlasting silence. There is one, however, who does not pass into the afterlife, instead morphing into the most dangerous of all succubi, one who preys on the souls of children to gain strength enough to kill men. She is old, frail, thought to be dead, and so the soldiers leave her there among the lifeless bodies.
There is a river nearby, and in it swim saltwater fish. The newly-turned demon lives by the waters, hoping for passersby, waiting for a child to wander into her trap. Clint Eastwood learns of the danger near the river, however, and stands guard night and day. He is tormented by the loss of one child in his past and he refuses to lose another as he eats his lunch in the wigwam he has fashioned as his stakeout.
Then it is night and the bright fire of a family glitters in the midnight chill. There is a little girl, wise beyond her years, who meets the succubus by the water's edge. She refuses to be led into the warm hut, instead returning hastily to her mother's side, spilling the story to Clint Eastwood as he makes his nightly river rounds.
"She wore the clothes of a child, despite her many years," she says quietly. "She cannot be who she claims."
He thanks the girl and strides with determination to the dank hole where the old woman lives, eager to finally end it forever. But he comes upon her too late - she holds an innocent in her steely, gnarled grasp as Clint Eastwood nears the murky water.
"No!!" he cries feverishly.
Nothing can be done. Bony fingers grip the neck of the child, eyes bulging, face reddening then fading to blue as slowly, slowly the spirit steals the lifebreath of the small victim.
Clint Eastwood knows she is too strong.
She has won.

And then I woke up.

A Mermaid, the Prisoner of Music

The scene of the stage is concrete, grey and splattered through with black gummy circles. Brandon Holcombe charges the stands, purple flag of the colorguard glowing brightly in his left hand. He mocks me with words I cannot hear, but they cut nonetheless. How can it be that I have reverted here to this place I thought I had escaped so thoroughly, a hell of ridicule and anger and hate? I stand in silence as his diatribe continues, the torrent only broken when gunfire echoes off the limestone walls.
Dull bleachers melt away and I stand frozen when I see a gun pointed at me, a black barrel the current god of my universe. The car, the goods, my father - all are there in the blink of an eye and the skinny chocolate man aiming fate in my direction hauls the bundle in his arms into the trunk of my grey compact, swerving his intent to my father instead.
I hear the blast, feel it even, but as I sink to the damp grass I realize my lifeblood remains intact. Again, again, the shot sounds. A scream of agony but it is not mine. I look up from my hazy nest on the ground and see my father, three wounds spewing redness, but I do not move. I know the men will leave if only I play dead.
The peal of old brakes in the distance and in the silence that follows I haul myself to my father, weeping, afraid, urgent. We must go inside the mansion, the one looming now right before us, for it is there that our safety lies.
I fashion a sling from my stockings for my father's arm and we limp through the massive wooden door and into dark tunnels. People appear from every corner, torches held above their heads and I almost weep with joy. They lead me to the weapon room, a woman bidding me choose wisely.
"These," I say, hurriedly removing the intricately designed, oversized letter openers from their stand.
"Yes," said my new friend solemnly, her black eyes bright. "Its true danger lies with its master. Now go! Save the mermaid!"
I am pushed along in a group so large I lose sight of my father, his name drowned by the war cry from the sea of angry people. Black tunnels pierced through with momentary sun are my one comfort for hours, exhaustion imminent and desperation for the end digging cold nails into my skin.
And then suddenly, finally, there is light, and its luminescence shines brightly off the polished surfaces of countless pianos, all glamorous beyond dreams. The room is large, open, and we weave our way through the grand instruments stopping only when we find the mermaid, the enchanted prisoner of music. It is she we must free.
Fair is her skin, dainty is her mouth, and the scales of her tail glitter emerald in the white light. She lays a sad gaze on the flimsy troupe before her, unaware that we are her freedom. No one speaks, but the music plays seamlessly from the hundreds of surrounding pianos, and through the magic of the melody, her chains are broken, the dawn of her escape.
Joy spreads through the graceful mermaid and she lifts her hands in ardent praise.

And then I woke up.

The Nightingale Cries, Too

Florence Nightingale would have a fit. Overused and pilfered through with a million cliches, no one should blame the near-saint for turning over in her grave. Never would it have been predicted that to be called such denotes grave connotations, ones bordering on pathetic, at that. To have injured souls and bruised sentiments sacrificed on the altar of self-respect is a far cry from the healing that Miss Nightingale so aptly gave.
And yet, what is happening to so many women today? The desire to help, to cure, to nurse - the nature of the female heart, surely - has become a distortion which inevitably sprouts self-loathing and begets certain disappointment.
As a constant purveyor of the ravaged male spirit, I am, frankly, exhausted with my seeming inability to accept a man who has not been wounded almost beyond repair. Whether it be involuntary or a twisted form of defense, I nevertheless refuse to meet the eyes of an undamaged fellow.
Fair traits stare me in the face oftentimes, the whole of a man stands in brightness before me, barely scathed by the blades of sordid pasts, of impeded futures. And yet, I look past him, through him, even, to the crouching figure in the dark distance, scars on his skin and waryness in his wake; his disconsolate gaze wreaks havoc on my heart, and with such a glance, I leave the light and run into the shadow, assured only one thing - agony.
I ache to be free of my disease. For a disease it must be, indeed, as it causes pain and hurt so deep that only Father Time may ever see the remedy. In the end, his ocean of tears that I so valiantly tried to stave will do naught but wash over me, even as I attempt to build the wall inside, a dam to fortify my spirit so that it may remain untouched while I purify and bandage and revive.
But it matters not.

I always drown.