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@inkmistress
Lights
Somewhere beyond here
Deep into the vast desert
There are glowing lights
The lights astound him,
The scientist, thick dark hair
Still with lack of breeze
He watches them
With eyes that reflect
The intricacy of their magnitude
Rebirth
We wrapped you in satin
Cheap, not-silken satin
That tries to imitate
Its distant cousin
And comes out non-fancy matter
Satin befits us, because
We are all cheaper versions
Of something that surely
Left us long ago
And as we are lowered
Into cold and unforgiving ground
We kiss the earth again
From which we were first born.
Buried Alive
Had there been light, it would have shone on his peaceful face, unafraid, unabashed as he lay three meters beneath the earth in a wooden coffin, heavy iron bolting and locking it. His hair was dark and inky, falling past his ears in fitful curls that looked neither dirty nor clean, but always shone with the warmth of sunshine. A single misshapen lock fell a ghastly white on his pale skin, and it had become habit for his long fingers to silently push the offending strand back in conversation. Raph was no stranger to conversation, being the son of Greggory Redd, longtime mayor of their quaint town.
No one had ever assumed Raph Redd to be a wizard afore. True, his fingers twitched when he spoke, and he stood a little funny when the moon was gone. He excused himself from titillating arguments with his fellows to exchange pleasantries with odd old women and kissed young girls on the inside of their hands instead of the back. Alas, it were his nanny herself that discovered the spell book laid open on his study table, and the next day Raph was hunted down, bound and thrown into the river. When he bobbed back up, the collective folk were flabbergasted. Greggory, a powerful and seasoned wizard himself, looked not in his son’s eye when he insisted he be trapped beneath the earth, just outside of town, and left there to die. And Raph, he had said nothing when he was being locked in, because being buried alive was child’s play compared to the fire and stake previously suggested to kill him. Besides, he knew the look in his father’s eye.
He stayed underground for a week and breathed slowly and stored his energy. Maggots crawled in through ill-filled holes in the knotted wood, and he was forced to have them join his slumber. Because his flesh was not sufficient food for them, they soon shriveled up and died, hard and brown. He fulfilled his boredom with memories of a city far away that his father had once explained to him- vast, densely populated, and full of wealth. There were people who would pay to see their magic, the mayor had explained. They would throw gold at their feet and bow when they walked past on the streets. They would be like kings among men. His mother Aurora had dreamed of it since being a young witch and was known for her powers in the city’s golden palace.
“It is a city made for those like us,” Greggory had said with his small and only son huddled onto his lap. “It is your dear mother’s last will that one day, I take you there.”
“When is that day, Father?” he would ask. The white hair would curl against his forehead, and Greggory would push it back with wizened fingers.
“All things in due time,” was his cryptic answer, and he would leave him to spend another sleepless night staring at the ceiling and waiting for the special day to come.
There was a distant ringing above the earth, and Raph’s relieved sigh stilled in the thin air. He could hear the sound of shovelfuls of dirt being thrown over strong shoulders, and his skilled hands pressed the coffin’s lid. When the shovel at last hit the iron barring him, he blasted away the wooden prison, startled his limbs with a tremulous shaking, and rose from the dead, dusting dirt from his shoulders and eyeing his father warily.
“Took longer than I expected,” the old wizard muttered, white brows heavy and tired over his silver-blue eyes.
“As I thought,” said Raph, smoothing back the white hair. It fell into place again, untidily. He footed himself to the carriage and sat in the back when his father took the reins. He unlaced his boots and let his feet breathe, toeing off his warm socks in favor of the crisp night air. “I dreamt of the city,” he let his father know, helping himself to the canteen preciously prepared for him.
“Good,” was the old man’s response as they rutted and jumped over the rocky trail. “That’s where we’re headed.”
The Dragon Who Wanted A Princess (Children's Story)
The princess he loved was the youngest of three. She was not beautiful like her eldest sister or studious like the second. Her parents, the king and queen, often forgot about her, and she spent most of her time every day sneaking out to explore in the forest. She was aware that the mountains were dangerous and forbidden, but she had always wanted to see a dragon. Little did she know, the dragon watched her from his tower in the mountains and longed for her company.
One day, the princess snuck out to explore and was captured by a band of thieves. They tied her up with rope and threw her into their caravan, hoping to get a handsome reward from the king and queen for the safe return of their daughter. Worried that they would be found and jailed, the bandits headed toward the mountains to hide.
When the princess did not appear, the dragon was disappointed. However, he was very patient. He waited all day to see her, sure that she had nowhere else to be. When she didn’t show up by sunset, he grew worried. He flexed his wings and flew from his tower, searching for a sign of her. He flew for many miles in all directions in hope of finding his princess.
While he searched, the band of thieves came upon his tower. “It must be abandoned,” said their leader. “Let’s stop here for the night.” They came into the tower with the princess and marveled at the treasures the dragon had collected.
“We could sell these,” they realized, overjoyed. “We’ll be rich instantly!” They began loading their carts with gold, jewels and other precious artifacts while the princess watched helplessly. When their carts and the big caravan were all full, they heard a great, loud roar from outside the tower.
“What was that?” their leader demanded. Suddenly, a shadow fell over them and a fierce wind blew them all off their feet. It was the dragon, hovering over them with its big leathery wings flapping.
“Who are all these people in my home?” he wondered. Then he saw the princess, tied up and shivering in the corner.
“Get him!” shouted one of the bandits. “Slay the dragon!” They all drew swords and came towards him, but the dragon was too powerful. He simply took a great breath and blew it out, burning them all to a crisp. All but the princess, of course, whom he carefully landed in front of. He released her from her bonds and gave her a big dragon smile.
“Hello, princess,” he said, quite shyly. “Would you like to ride back to the palace?” The princess stared at him for a moment with wide eyes and he worried that he’d said something wrong. Then she gave a big smile of her own. “That was amazing!” she said. “Can we play together?”
The dragon was very surprised, but he was also very pleased. Together, he and the princess explored the mountains, playing together until the moon was high in the sky. They curled up next to each other in the tower, the dragon’s tail wrapped protectively around the princess, and they slept very soundly that night.
The next morning, the dragon placed the princess on his back and they flew back to the palace, where the king and queen were waiting, very upset. When the dragon flew close, the palace guards grew scared.
“Shoot at it!” one yelled, but another pulled his bow away. “Don’t you see? It has the princess!”
So they didn’t shoot, and the dragon landed before the palace. The princess climbed down from his back and ran to meet the king, the queen and her sisters, who had all missed her very much.
“I didn’t think you’d remember me,” she told them.
“Oh, we will always remember our littlest princess,” said the king.
The queen looked to the dragon. “How shall we repay you, dragon? With gold? A crown? A place in the royal stables?”
The dragon simply smiled and replied, “I have always wanted a princess.”
So, with the king and queen’s blessing, the princess was able to return to the tower with the dragon, and there they frolicked and played for the rest of their days. It was the most beautiful of friendships, and the dragon hardly ever sneezed.
Once Upon A Time
Once upon a time, there was a love story that was not made of words. The story started with big, round eyes and sweet, pure laughter. It was slow to start at first. There was the smell of coffee and silent glances taken over bowed shoulders. There was a meeting, a nervous smile, a first date, and the soft, warm caress of a kiss goodnight. The story was a story of fulfillment. There were no words to tell it. Once upon another time, there was a love story that was blind. The story started with a soft, gentle touch and an anxious smile. It staggered as it was told, but it stayed on its feet. There was the smell of seasoned firewood and soft whispers under a warm patchwork quilt. There was a cup of warm cocoa and the lips that tasted it. The story was a story of learning to love. There were no eyes to see it.
Once upon another time, there was a love story that went to war. The story started with tears and a cry of agony, a strong hug and a strangled sob. It was frightening and unnerving. There was the trembling of anxious fingers and short, precious calls by telephone. There was a warm home waiting for a safe return. The story was a story of survival. There were two people to tell it.
Once upon another time, there was a love story that died. The story started with the slow descent of a long, happy life. It hung on as long as it could. There was a moment between earth and Heaven. There was a departure and the promise of a reunion. The story was a story of dedication. There was one grave and one person to tell it.
In a time to come, there will be a love story that holds no judgment. The story will start without doubt. It will be between two people that love each other and simply that. There will be no assumption, no hesitation, only truth. There will be a home and a long life of loving each other and themselves. The story will be a story of love and simply that. This story will tell itself.
Untilted 03
Madame Cordier looked extraordinarily like a turkey. Her neck stuck forward as if fixed that way, and her throat was long and stretched, loose skin spilling onto her collar around her bony frame. She must have been fat at one time, I remember thinking, to have such heavy bags of skin gathering off all her loose ends. Her eyes were sunken past her wrinkles, but her large, round glasses were so thick that they pulled them out of the depths of old-womanhood and straight into my face. She was climbing into her nineties, but still had her own crooked yellow teeth and bony knees. She rocked in her chair too quickly to be considered safe and an old-fashioned radio was always tuning by her side, one with many buttons and dials and a big, long antenna.
"Bonjour, Madame Cordier," I would say out of courtesy, and with bated breath I would hope that she wouldn't call me over to her stoop. Unfortunately, she tricked me into sitting with her almost every day, no matter my excuse, and I would spend an hour rocking in the chair next to her, looking at my feet and choking down old wives' tales until Ivan came back from his work in the city, big and bearlike. He couldn't have stood out any more in his shiny blue BMW if he tried. It was one of the few times that I was happy to see him, and one of the few times that he would eye the old woman and open the door for me. He grunted at her when she greeted him, and I almost felt protected when I sat, small and defenseless, next to him in the shiny car.
"Don't get dirt on the floor," he'd warn me, and I'd lift my shoes with care. I didn't hate him as much when he gave me rides, even if it were only for a few moments. During the War, we seldom went to the city or left the little village at all. Bombs were dropped everywhere, but mainly within city limits. Village de L'est was small picking for a skilled bomber.
"That old witch is a bad nut," he'd grumble within the confines of his bear beard.
You're a bad nut, I'd think, but I didn't say it; I just nodded.
"Momma says to be kind to her," I'd say with a small voice, and he'd give me another hard grunt. The scariest thing about Ivan wasn't that he beat my mother, or that he beat me, or that he went into drunken rages and raped her or hit us or screamed until he fell out cold and nursed a sore throat in the morning. The scariest thing about him was that, under the thorns, the blood, the poison that tainted him, there was a rose still blooming. Ivan loved my mother. I would never justify it for him or condone anything that he did, but I held the thought in the back of my head and shuddered each time it came to me. My mother knew it, too, and that's why she put down the phone every time he had passed out on the couch in his stupor.
Felipe was born when I was ten. He was a product of drunken, angry sex and heroin and nightmares. I loved him greatly and protected my mother when he was growing in the womb. Ivan kept his hands off of her for awhile, thankfully, preferring his Heineken and roasted peanuts. His smell lingers on me even now as I remember holding tiny Feli in my arms while Momma took a hit. She said it was to numb herself, but sometimes I wonder if it was to numb the world around her- not to shut off, but to shut out. To close out the suffering from the sufferer, to blur the lines in her vision so that she didn't have to see what her life had become.
Feli and I grew up closer than brothers. We forged a bond that overrode blood and mentality. Poor Felipe couldn't even speak until he was two years old, stumbling over letters, his baby talk thick and masking any of his true potential. Ivan loved him more than me, probably because Felipe was actually his son by birth. The others called him a retard; I called him my baby brother. What he couldn't say, I did. When I couldn't speak, his voice said all that I needed and more.
I recall one time in particular when I was twelve and he was a little past three and I found Momma's hope chest. It was pushed far under her bed, along with my childhood, toys, dirt, bits and pieces of cellophane and bubble wrap, Styrofoam and the caps to clear orange pill bottles. I dragged it out and tried the latch. It wasn't locked and it popped right open. Momma's hope chest was like a safety deposit box, but guarded with the utmost personal care. The items inside were worth more back then than they ever would be. I found a picture in the clutter and pulled it out carefully. Photographs are more precious than anything, Momma once said. Expensive, endearing, little pieces of a memory printed forever, never to be erased with a click of a button. This particular photograph never faded from my memory. It was a picture of my mother when she was young and spritely and so happy that it hurt my heart. She stood next to a man that I instantly knew was my father, tall and handsome and so masculine and strong that we couldn't be mistaken for kin if it weren't for his eyes, bright blue just like mine.
"Who that?" said Felipe brokenly. I contemplated my answer for awhile and ran my finger over the man's glossy cheek. I looked back to my little brother and he stared rather vacantly. This was the man who needed to raise us, I decided. This is the man that shouldn't have left us alone…
"That's our real father," I said softly.
Ivan heard me. He must have been standing nearby or lingering in the doorway or right over my shoulder- but wherever he was, I was grabbed roughly from the back of my neck and shaken, hit with rotten, livid words that spat like acid from his mouth.
"How dare you, you little bastard." His throat vibrated thickly with sickly growls. I thought he was going to vomit all over me when his breath came close to my face, dense with beer and nuts and something particularly oniony. "I'll make you eat those words, faggot."
I didn't even know what he meant by that, but the way he spoke the words made me cringe and turn my head, squeezing my eyes shut tight. I braved another black eye, no skin off my back.
"Hey," said Felipe, and I turned to him, wide-eyed, and shook my head the best I could with Ivan's fist clenching the front of my shirt. He was looking straight at him, though, and not at me. Feli had never been hit before, never punished or even placed in time-out or anything. He was too handicapped to offend anyone, too slow and precious and naïve and sweet and everything a baby brother is to his siblings. Ivan almost seemed shocked that he had opened his mouth. His voice softened, almost fatherly, and his grip loosened only slightly. "What is it, kid," he said, gruff as always, but some speckle of kindness in his words. I was appalled. I hoped Feli knew what he was going to say, and that he didn't ruin this rare side of Ivan I'd never seen before.
Felipe stared back, in all seriousness. "Pwease don't do that," he said. "Ewwy will get bwuises."
Ivan looked from him to me and growled, shoving me to the floor. He gave me a warning glare and retreated back to the cave of the living room, a nest of beer and anger. I grabbed Feli and pulled him tightly into a hug. I don't know if he'll ever know it, but he's my hero.
Homecoming
The music they played for him was soft, the melancholy bearings of a tarnished lute echoing in the warm, humid air. Dragonflies buzzed languidly, dipping down in gentle arcs to wet before the erratic pulse of their wings carried them off once more. Their voyages were simple, paths clean and unabraised. A spider's web was woven in the corner of the willow, hanging low over the river, hidden, masked, and shimmering, vaguely, with drops of syrupy dew.
His face was hard and relaxed, powdered, paled, dressed, his suit starched, hair combed. He seemed younger, thinner in his fancy clothes, cheeks red brown with rogue. The sun crept low in the sky, and fire crackled in the sky to weep his testament. His cap set on his chest, clutched in cold, gloved hands. Aisu held his wings in trembling fingers, his fathers the roses that tumbled to the bed when he passed, bobbing in the water, petals tearing off. He loves me not.
No one breathed a word about the accident. The trails of exhaust in the sky crept into their minds. The smoke on the water burned their nostrils in remembrance.
The river swept him up and carried him, still, gentle. The water mirrored the sunset feverishly, burning to a cobalt sky illuminated with mountains of glittering white. Tears streamed, mighty as the waters beneath them, puffing eyes, stinging bitten lips.
He, at last, journeyed home.
Awaiting
It isn't uncommon, with a nod to modern statistics, for a girl of sixteen to dream. Star-studded visions cloud their minds, denouncing common sense and logic for the much sweeter tastes of daydreams and wishing wells and other fanciful, frivolous pursuits. Their eyes and hearts are deep and delicate, fluttering and full of life.
Raiko, though meek and timid, dreamt worlds above her head, dreamt castles and spires and boys clad in green- boys of age, with longswords and bows and arrows and aspirations to be like the Hero of legend. The Hero, coincidentally, presided in a secret place above the clouds, awaiting the day Darkness reared its head again, shattering the Seal with which he banished it, the Blade of Evil's Bane fiery hot in his hands.
Most importantly of all, upon a sacred throne adorned on a rosy pedestal, was the jewel of all the land, the Hero's Princess. Beautiful, fair, and humble, the soft-eyed Princess held the single key to her Hero's heart, and he, forever chivalrous, bent again and again to kiss her tender hand. Before her court, her advisers- her father, the King of Red Lions himself- he became but her humble servant, a prisoner to her name, a yearning for her plush lips, a thief after her life-giving kiss. In a nightly tryst, she learns his scarred body, memorizes the callouses in his hands, feels the roughness in his lips, tastes the salt on his skin, realizes the strength in his arms, lithe, hard muscles rolling and flexing- sees, for the first time, the soft and fierce fire in his eyes; a fire that burns, livid, straight to his core, sorrowful, angry, righteous. He is, in utmost truth, her Savior, her beloved Hero of Time that defied man's laws and woke the Winds of Fortune, the Hero whose legends lulled the children of Hyrule, the fabled Boy in Green who plagued her girlhood dreams. He, certainly, would one day achieve the throne, and with her would create a legacy all their own.
Such dreams were her blessed escape that carried her through periods of sadness and doubt, and she preserved that her Hero was rising to age in another world, making his own legends, cloaked in the Fable Green. Her eyes remained soft, full of passion, of wonder, of dreams of her coveted rosy throne. She, compelled by Time, waited upon its Hero to be her salvation.
Her heart still thunders when he's close, if only to sit, to hardly speak, to deftly nod, oblivious, hard-eyed, his only sound the clicking of buttons and soft, determined grunts. She loves him, her Hero, and she waits.
Thirteen-Word Story
A lonely song wilts on the breeze. It was once a brighter tune.
Savior
Roberto was the name of my saving grace. I hadn’t asked him to save me. In retrospect, I don’t think I ever wanted to be saved in the first place. I was perfectly fine where I was, black-eyed, lifeless, keeling over in the bottom of my own dark pit, so far from the light that I was invisible, void of color. Everyone uses the old euphemism “the eyes are the windows to the soul”, but no one can quite explain it properly. I finally understood it in full when I caught sight of my own withered reflection. My eyes were dull and black, depthless, lightless. I had blacked my windows. No one could see in. I couldn’t see out. They kept out the light and held back the warmth. I was cold and dead and nothingness. I had given up. I wanted to die. I had planned it to perfection- the gun fit perfectly in my hand. When the trigger was pulled, I would stagger and fall from the bridge- beautiful, weightless, in flight- my swan song as I plunged into the icy depths of the river. And then, there he was, to take the gun, to lift my hand so the barrel was in his face, kissing each of my fingers until they broke formation and released the coveted prize that had been my last resort. That’s how my Broadway mind documented it, anyhow, and I clung to the vision in earnest with the glorified confirmation that yes, somebody cares. He was really my master, I his apprentice. I was horrible with my hands and couldn’t for the life of me decipher the art in fashion and design. My fingers became famously pricked with tiny needlepoint marks. He taught me art, colors, silk and cotton. He made me his project. We didn’t speak much about the day he found me, and I often wondered how and why, but part of me feared the answer, and more than once I had to force my mouth shut. I was always poised with so many questions, and he always had an answer. He was sweet, gentle, perfect, and I his twisted mess. “Señor Liam,” he’d called one day, voice a perfect melody, “Will you try this on for size?” My heart stopped. I peered into his workroom from the stockroom where I was taking inventory, my favorite place, surrounded by dresses and crisped suits and everything that was the beauty of fashion. I must have looked confused, because he chuckled softly and beckoned me closer with a crooked finger. I forced my suddenly leaden feet to move to him, which, fortunately, came by instinct. “Sir?” I questioned softly, and I hid behind the comfort of my scarf. It was late autumn, and the shop was empty and somewhat cold. Roverto invited me to sit with him by the heater, but just the thought of cuddling, cozy under a warm blanket together, was enough to force me into sensory overload. “A customer of mine, he is your size,” he explained, and I was doubtful, because I had never met anyone vaguely close to my size, “and I want to check the fit on you before I call him in.” “O-okay,” I said, unsure, and he gave me a reassuring beam that shot my nerves. “Good,” he said, and he offered me a bag. “Go ahead and disrobe now.” “H-here?” I squeaked. I felt myself go scarlet. “Sí, compañero. It will be quick." In the end, he won, and soon I was unbuttoning my shirt, nimble fingers tugging the fabric from my body. I was vaguely aware of his gaze sweeping over me, his cool, gentle eyes making maps on my body. I stood there, pale milky white, in nothing but my shorts. I quickly covered myself, wanting to hide, to curl up in a ball or disappear or explode. I knew what he was looking at, and it had nothing to do with my gender or the band of my underwear poking over the top of my shorts or the fact that, in spite of his pitying gaze, I was a little intrigued by the way his rough hands brushed my sensitive skin. His skin was wonderfully dark next to mine. I tried to focus on his hand while he examined my scars. [0] They danced across his body like lines in pure ice, left by a negligent skater uncaring for the masterpiece beneath his blades. Some were light, some dark- some looked paper-thin and some ran deep enough to leave lasting dents and impressions with ragged, soft skin from torn sutures and ripped seams. They crossed his chest, trailed down his abdomen, drizzled down his lean arms and dripped onto his thighs. Even his ankles, skinny and pale, were ringed with cruel tan lacerations. Beneath them, his once-flawless skin glowed a creamy porcelain. Without thinking my fingers pressed his chest, over a harsh scar, and I reveled in the warmth of his flesh. I forgot about the clothes I needed him to try on. I had never seen him so vulnerable, and he drew in upon himself as I had seen long ago. His cheeks lit up, and his small body entreated a warm embrace. I stayed still, however, and pressed my palm fully against his tiny chest, captivated by his small size, wanting desperately to draw him to my chest but feeling this was the inappropriate course of action. I watched his eyes darken and his face fall the longer I stood there and beheld his angelic form before me. His heart pulsed beneath my hand and his eyes fluttered shut as he sucked in a shaky breath. I made my decision. My mouth descended among his, claiming him swiftly. My arms crushed him against me, his little body quivering against mine. His hands, flawless, slender, perfect, ghosted to my chest and I closed my eyes and saved him again.
Play Ball (Character Development)
The Gantz house was crammed up into a nonexistent corner of the cul-de-sac, a last-minute idea wedged in-between two perfectly formed ones. It was muddy red and had ugly green shutters, but it was big enough to start a family in, so Mom and Pop settled. We were all conceived and born there, all six of us, in lazy succession, so that by the time I was born my baby clothes had all been wet and stained before. I was the youngest boy of five and older brother to our one straggling girl. Tamra was a year younger and several years smarter than me. The cards were her idea.
My older brothers had a box of them sitting on top of the refrigerator where I couldn’t reach. They weren’t old or dusty, but they had value. I stole them three at a time from their stash and sold them for two dollars apiece. They never noticed. Though they guarded the things fiercely when I asked to see them, they forgot about them if I didn’t. I once heard Bert say that they’d be worth good money someday. He was right, but I got the better deal in the end. That was the end of Tamra’s business with me; she only wanted to get the boys back for some forgotten childhood transgression.
I guess I stole because I hated rich people. I hated the kids at the gas station down the road that always had new clothes and clean faces. I hated people that drove by in brand new cars and people with prettily kept yards. I hated crisp suits and Sunday dresses. I hated lipstick and pearls and the front pew at church that always hosted the most important ladies in town. It wasn’t anything like what I grew up with. In their world, there were no hand-me-downs, no ugly moms who couldn’t afford makeup. Most importantly, there were no dads who hated his life so badly that he drunk himself silly whenever he could and threw stuff he couldn’t afford to break until he passed out. Rich people didn’t have any of that, so I wanted to be rich.
Anyway, the baseball cards reaped the smallest profit. I was stealing Mom’s jewelry next; she never wore it anyway, so I reckoned I’d do her a favor. She took her rings off to wash dishes and clothes, and that’s all she ever did. I got Gus in on it too. Gus was my youngest older brother, a real tall and skinny kid with Dad’s dark, messy hair but Mom’s ruddy skin and freckles. He sweated a lot and always looked guilty, but he’d help me nab Mom’s earrings or a bracelet every once in a while.
After a while, Gus and I became partners in crime. He was still sweaty and guilty when Mom noticed her jewelry missing or when Pop swore his damn pocketknife was sitting right there last time he checked, but he became better about it with some coaching. We expanded beyond our family after a while and bullied kids for lunch money or stole their toys. We were the kings of the playground and pretty much always got what we wanted. We pooled our money and spent it on whatever our hearts desired, mostly kid stuff like gum or trading cards or sodas. Every once in a while, Gus would nearly break down and cry. I remember seeing tears pool in his pale green eyes.
“It ain’t right, you know,” he’d say.
“Ain’t it?” I’d answer. “Ain’t you tired of rich people stayin’ rich and us having to pinch pennies just to eat?” I’d watched him think, and he agreed with me. He didn’t say a word after that. It started there. Mom and Pop caught us after a while, when some kid down the street told his mom on us. Gus broke down then and cried and apologized profusely. I didn’t. Pop whipped me and Gus never talked to me much more after that. He didn’t care about the rich people anymore, but I sure did, and I wasn’t about to get cheated again.
It was my older brothers that got me into the drug business, anyhow. Ours wasn’t the best town, but it was better than the town over, Winelake. Winelake was a literal hellhole, crawling with prostitutes, gamblers and all sorts of things my mom called “blackest sins”. You were liable to get shot up at night if you meandered around long enough. I once heard someone got shot during the day, too. Hugh and Rick were fearless, though, or reckless, maybe. I caught them coming back from that way in Pop’s car one night and they let me see. I didn’t see the appeal of some kind of powder in a plastic bag, but they sure did, and I understood soon enough.
“No, you don’t use it,” they’d said, as if it were obvious. “You sell it. Make a good profit.”
“How much?” I’d asked. When they told me, my jaw about fell off. I’d quickly enlisted as a partner in their business. I guess it just went on from there. I was good at what I did, always had been. I was a salesman. I sold all through college, flawlessly, and got a job at the firm in the city as a corporate finance correspondent. I kept on at it and learned the business of different, stronger drugs with different, stronger effects. Why not? By my tenth year in business I’d made more than my Mom and Pop had ever made. I was getting richer. Even then, there was this kind of bizarre emptiness I couldn’t even begin to describe. I put money away, but for what?
Hugh and Rick did what they could to help Mom and Pop after they got their landscaping business off the ground. Bert flunked out of law school and decided to join them. Pop did always say that if you weren’t strong of mind, you were strong of body. I wondered what Mom would say if she knew where that money came from, if she’d be ashamed. I wondered if she knew it when Bert settled down with a watery-eyed junkie who pawned her ring for stronger stuff from another dealer. I wondered if she suspected anything when Rick had to take off during family dinners to make abrupt trips to “the office”. Only Gus stayed sweet and pure, out of all five of us boys. He was a soft-spoken doctor with a small practice on the East Side. We all teased him a lot when he came home to visit; his freckles were still scattered like stars over the long, flat expanse of his face and he still had extra blood in his veins just for blushing. He was good, and he loved Lorraine as much as I did.
Lorraine White was from Winelake. She was a pretty young girl when I met her, maybe in her early twenties, right and just with bright blue eyes that made my voice stop and sputter. She had fine blonde hair, long eyelashes and a little boy that I called Emmett for two weeks before I learned that his name was Elliot and that I am an asshole. I hadn’t considered it before, growing up with boys and all, but I became slowly more aware of how rough my voice was, how tall I was, how my hand was as big as her face and my fists were strong enough to mangle her. She asked me on her first day in town how to get to church the next morning. I’d laughed, and she’d been confused.
“We don’t have church ‘round here, ‘less you’re Korean,” I let her know. I was on my way back from a good deal downtown; otherwise I’d never have run into her.
“Oh,” she said, and her little brows had pursed, but then she smiled again. “Thank you for telling me. That’s fine; we’ll just have to sleep in tomorrow, won’t we?” I started to say yes, but she was talking to the kid. He just stared at me and didn’t answer, and I wondered how long it had been since I shaved, how scary-looking I was.
“What’re you lookin’ at, kid?” I asked. I meant for it to sound playful, but his eyes went wide and he quickly looked away. I got the girl’s number and told her to call if she needed me. Frankly, she was too pretty to be single and too fragile to be alone in a bad place like Winelake.
So we saw each other now and then, and I’d take her and the kid to the city. He warmed up to me real quickly, and she told me his father had just walked out on them. He even had the glazed, confused look of a kid missing his dad, and it stayed in his eyes a long time. He looked like Lorraine, though, and I figured I could fix him up to be a strong kid in time.
I guess I should have expected her to ask me what I did, so I told her. Then she asked what I really did. “You seem passionate,” she let me know, and I laughed, and she was an angel. I’d never heard anyone say that, especially about a guy who punched numbers and dealt drugs for a living. So I told her what I really did, and she went quiet before saying that she understood. Her smile was precious, and I found that I could smile a little, too.
Halfway through my eleventh year at the firm, I got a cut in my pay. Around the same time, Lorraine got a new job as an aide in a copy room at the elementary school. We hit a bar one night and she wouldn’t have a drink, but I would. I always drank too much when I did, and frankly, I couldn’t get enough of it. I found myself being the guy at the restaurants who always orders four beers before he leaves and wakes up on the couch with a headache and a bad attitude. My strength got the best of me and I was mad at myself half the time. She worked hard and I was mad about it; I worked hard and I was mad about it. I didn’t touch my savings because I was saving up for a ring.
I never meant to hurt either of them, her or her baby, but I did, and there’s no justifying all that. I tried to, once upon a time, but I never can. When she got laid off, Lorraine asked me to sell her some of the white stuff and I had to oblige her, because I knew I couldn’t handle that sweet, innocent face in any more pain.
When Elliot was ten, we got word that she was pregnant. He had grown to resent me by then, and I can’t deny that he had all the reason in the world to do so. Lorraine had grown weary and sickly since I first met her, and though it broke my heart, I kept dealing to her. I didn’t buy the ring, because I knew where it would end up. Gus came by to meet her and said she was a lovely woman with a very polite child. Then he led me outside and asked me, “Why are you doing this to them?”
I hit him so hard that his face became a mess of blood.
We named the baby Felipe. Lorraine liked those exotic names, said they were pretty and reminded her of a place she’d been before. She was always somewhat out of it at that point, drifting in and out of consciousness with only the drug on her mind. Elliot was always glaring at me. I always wanted to apologize, but I never knew how to, so we yelled at each other and he called me things that made me lash out at him. Lorraine screamed at me not to hurt him, and all I could think is that I wasn’t trying to.
It was a long process, Lorraine’s descent into a drug-induced insanity. I never saw my brothers anymore. Felipe was seven. Back then, his world was cement and laughter and the thick smell of beer. It was always summer in our rundown neighborhood, and the asphalt always burned his feet. The Gantz-White house was crammed up onto a dirty street between many others. It was a dirt-stained white and had ugly windows, but it was where Lorraine chose to live. The cards were my idea.
I gave the box to Felipe. They were old and dusty, the ones that were left. I stole the whole stash from my brothers at home. They never noticed. Though they guarded the things fiercely when I asked to see them, they always forgot about them if I didn’t.
“You know, those will be worth good money someday,” I told him. He had bouncy blonde curls and eyes that were distinctly mine, but they smiled like Lorraine’s when he looked at me.
“I’ll keep ‘em forever,” he promised, and somehow, that satisfied me.
Forgotten
On the lonely acropolis of her great city,
Athena watches the world turn.
There are weathered bricks and broken homes
And strange-looking people with small rectangles
That capture her image.
There are lights for miles around
In tiny, dirty houses.
Her temple is here,
But the worshipers are gone.
Remembrance
Marco. I remember the taste of his name on my tongue, once sweet and fresh, once my favorite word. I remember the feel of his name in my mouth, warm and ticklish. Marco. I remember when his name grew too heavy for me to carry past my lips, when its sweetness turned bitter. I remember the feeling of loss, of losing half my heart, half of me.
Most importantly, I remember the freckles. When I was close enough, I could count each and every one. Our noses bumped and he would laugh, his eyelashes fluttering against my cheeks, his breath hot on my face. I’d press my lips to every one of those scattered spots, numerous as the stars, and card my fingers through that thick, swarthy hair. They trailed lower, further, along his sweet-smelling skin, dotting his neck, his shoulders, the apex of his chest.
Our love was pure, untainted. We exchanged saccharine whispers in the humid night air and laughed too hard at unfunny things. Marco was wholesome and I was his perfect cavity. His sighs were pleasant and lazy and mine forever. When I finally kissed him, my world became complete. I remember every silky soft kiss we exchanged and every tender embrace I fell into at the end of a hard and unrelenting day. I remember the nights that were sweaty and sticky and nights that were frigid and hard.
I remember, most of all, the love that burned so steadfastly within me. It burns on now, a whisper that never tumbled past my foolish lips, a promise never pledged to those perfect amber eyes, three precious words that he would never hear. It flares when I remember that once-smiling face, that empty cadaver, staring emptily, boring cold into my core.
And I miss him, and I miss Jean, and I hear someone crying again, and I’m still alone.
Kiss of Death
Death didn’t look anything like I expected. Propped up in the same bed, an endless white stretch of cotton and fiber, I was too weak, too dead already to stop him. He wasn’t sickly white or bony like a skeleton, and he didn’t seem to be a spirit of any sort. He had no scythe, either; he had nothing to tear my soul from my body. He wasn’t frightening or intimidating; in fact, he seemed rather… cheerful. Yes, cheerful was the word- he was a grinning man, with skin stretched long and wide over his perfect teeth, a smart little nose and gleaming grey eyes. His hair was swarthy, tousled by his journey, and he wore a stiff black suit that matched the briefcase by his side. I wasn’t afraid of him, either, though I knew distantly that I should be, that he was here to harvest my soul.
He inclined his head in a cheery nod. He was beautiful, Death- he looked like no one I had ever seen, like the heroes of ancient myth, like the man who would laugh at Poe’s Raven, a man who could slay six Goliaths and Hades and have the bloodlust to do it again. His smile was both charming and devious, his gait straight and businesslike, yet loose and youthful. He looked no more than twenty, but his voice, deep and velvety, betrayed him.
“Are we ready?” he asked rather happily. He sat at the side of my bed and swung around the tray that had served me my last meal not very long ago. He swept the mostly-uneaten contents into the trash and opened his briefcase, crossing his legs at the knee. What he set before me was a piece of old parchment with a long, elaborate title in a language long lost to the world. I could not read it, nor could I make any attempt to decipher it. I grew tired watching the words, and they began to move and swarm together. I threw a hand over my face and tried to catch a breath that drew further and further away from me. My vision began to blur further. The machines hooked up to me said nothing.
“Now, Aggie, let’s not be difficult,” Death murmured. His deft fingers swept mine up and pressed a pen into them, curling them shut around it. I opened my eyes and didn’t remember that I’d closed them. “What’s that?” I heard myself ask.
“Sign right here, your full name, please,” he instructed, guiding my hand. “That’s a good girl.” I found myself scrawling my name across the paper, compelled by his smooth voice.
“Perfect,” he said in my ear. I shivered, pleasantly. He placed the paper back into the briefcase and closed it tight, winking at me. “Any questions?” I had none. I watched him stand and pace the room, then turn to me, smiling over his shoulder.
“You are very brave, Agnes,” he let me know. “There are many who beg and scream, who plead that I make some sort of negotiation with them. Do you know that there are others that have offered up the souls of their family, of their friends? I almost want to oblige them and saddle them with that terrible guilt. Haven’t you any objections?”
“No,” I said.
“Nothing you want to say?”
“There is nothing to say.” I understood how Death worked, even if I didn’t expect him in this form- if I did not go now, I would only go later. The pain of living made my limbs heavier the longer I laid before him, exposed in my weakness. He nodded and grasped my chin in his hand.
“You’re very right,” he said, and he kissed me fiercely.
Democracy
Do not surrender to the men
That measure our lives
In dollar bills and ballots.
Peter Pan Complex
I don’t want to grow up. I dislike the responsibility that is coming down heavy around my shoulders, the yoke that’s forming to join me to society. I want a job and to be able to afford to live, but my passions will allegedly leave me penniless. I want an education, but I don’t want the student loans that will take half my life to pay off. I’m not ready to marry or have children, because I am still a child myself- yet, I look around and see children with children with children. The world is becoming more real the older I grow. Visions of fantasy and whimsical games slowly fade away and leave me to a world I’m not sure is safe to live in. Ours is a world of hate that love has abandoned. I am a child who has seen families fall apart and nations go to war over money. Such a trivial thing money is, and yet it ultimately controls us. From a young age we are taught that there is only one linear path that will carry us through life, and that path starts in school, which leads to more school, which leads to debt, which leads to a job, which leads to money. But how can we ever be sure of that? I don’t want to be poor in my old age and unable to live comfortably because those before me have sapped me of all that I was assured that I would have. I don’t want to pay bills or move away from my parents. I don’t want to end up in a dingy bar every weekend, drinking away the life I was told would be made perfect. I want to go back. I want to be a child again, diversify myself from this state of half-adulthood. They tell me I’m old enough to be responsible, to be mature, that I am almost an adult. At the same time, if I died today, they would all say, “But why? She was only a child.” And I wish I were. I wish my imaginary worlds of old would join with the ones of now, that my perception of the future would change from dystopian horrors to a friendly image that I could one day replicate. I wish I could be that simple again, to know everything with no doubt in my mind that my words were true. I wish I were that tender little girl again that made everyone so happy to see. In the end, I’m getting older, and in the end, I stop to think and realize that there’s nothing I can do. This is the most painful part of growing: the realization that the older you are, the more invaluable you become to the world around you.