Words

   hurt     wasting    hate     breathless
   heart    time       kiss     screaming
   pain     wishing    embrace  dreamed
   longing  stars      crying   lost
waiting   friend   resolve    alone
hoping    love     never      forgotten.

The First Time.

It was the first time I killed a man. It was an accident; that first death. It was completely unintentional. The ones that followed were much more fulfilling, but who can forget their first?

His name was Jack. He was twelve and he had white-blonde hair paired with light brown eyes. He was riding his bike by the railroad tracks that day. The sun was shining and it was a beautiful day. For him, it was the last.

I was thirteen. Gangly and awkward. I was sitting on the tracks, watching him do donuts and chewing on a piece of taffy. He was getting bored, you could tell by the way he kept stopping to stare down the tracks.

"Do you want to race?" he asked, stopping beside me. I swallowed my last bite of taffy and shrugged.

"Why not?" I replied. He climbed off the bike and we stood on the rails. He cheated, by starting first, taking off before an actual count could be made. At thirteen, this pissed me off and I ran as fast as I ever have. I grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him to the ground.

"Hey, get off asshole." He struggled, trying to shove me off. But I was bigger and I pinned him. Sitting on his chest, I held his head and bashed it against the rocky ground. He screamed only once before he began to seize under me.

His struggling frightened and intrigued me. I continued to sit on his chest and watched his eyes roll back into his skull. I left him there, ostensibly to get help. It was not my intention to kill him. He just shouldn't have cheated. When I returned, his body was pulped by the train, all evidence of my crime wiped away.

The Magic Man: Part I

Sleep now, sleep deep. Soon you will awake and the morning will no longer be.
Soft, sweet, softly. They'll hear your breathing, but not your heart beating.
Soon we will be swept up in the dark of night, candy colored lights to guide the way home.

Celeste awoke in a cold sweat. Her thin shift clung to her drenched and shivering body. The fire in her tiny cabin had gone out and only the faintest glow came from the coals. Tugging on the tattered quilt, she burrowed into the warmth of her bed and tried to block out the sound of the snow falling.

It wasn't that the sound bothered her, but snow reminded her that Poppa was gone and Momma was sick with the fever. It also made her feel nervous; as if there were a thousand eyes watching her every move. If she closed her eyes tight enough, it was summer time and Poppa was out in the fields. Momma would be in the kitchen, the windows flung wide and the whole place smelling of bread and lavender. William, the butcher's youngest son, would be playing on the floor with the kittens and Susan, her youngest sister, would be banging her wooden spoon against the table legs.

"Celeste," moaned her mother. Her voice seemed to echo from beneath the covers, growing louder against the well of her ears.

"Yes, Momma?" she whispered, curling into herself. She imagined her ribs growing outward to cage her within them. The smaller she was, the less chance of being found by whatever it was that seemed to be haunting her.

"The fire," her mother's voice sounded weak now. "its out."

"Yes, Momma." shivering, she eased out from under the covers. She did not look out the window as she tip-toed to the pile of dry wood. If she looked out she was sure she would see the Magic Man from her nightmares.

Squatting, she gathered the smallest sticks first. If she could get those going, with what little flame was left, then she would put on the thicker logs. Poppa had taught her well. Without fully rising, she moved toward the fireplace.

Sleep now, sleep deep. Soon you will awake, my prisoner you'll be.

She jumped, falling backwards, scattering a few coals and dropping her sticks. His eyes were glowing in the pit of the fireplace, shining like two moons in a sea of fire. A small scream pressed free of her lips and the wind rattled the windows so that the whole room was shaking.

She did not have to look out the window to see him. She knew he was there. His long black cape flapping furiously in the bitter winter wind, his long black hair plaited down his back and his black hat dusted white by the snow. She did not have to look out the window, but she was drawn to it. Her eyes met his auburn coloured ones and his smile, sardonic and mirthful, gleamed in the faint light of the coals.

Soft, sweet, softly. Mustn't let momma hear you leaving.

Gingerly, she lifted the latch on the door and stepped out into the swirling white world. She did not feel the bite of the snow against her bare feet or the sting of the wind as it whipped against her reddening cheeks. All she saw was his face and the edge of summer rising behind his black cape.

Kiss Me.

"Kiss me."
He says.

"Break me."
I reply.

Black Tips

Black tips.
French lips.
Luscious hips.
Caressing fingertips.

All of Her: Epilogue

I am sitting in the rectory of a church. My bouquet of red roses and white baby's breath clutched tightly in my hands. This scene is familiar. It is because of this that I'm so nervous. My mother is puttering around behind me. She is nervous for me. I wish I could ease her fears, as well as my own.

I stand up, my long, red and white gown pooling around my feet. I am barefoot, per my soon-to-be-husband's request. I hope he will be my husband. I can't be that unlucky, right? Dumped at the altar twice?

"It's time." My mother says. She is beaming. Have I ever seen her this happy? Perhaps on her own wedding day. I smile, nervously, and squeeze her hand. She opens the door and ushers me into the foyer. Kevin and Clark stand on either side of the double doors. Two guards at the gates of the castle, awaiting their orders.

Elizabeth is my flower girl and Kristopher stands at her side holding his ring bearer pillow. Emma and Sophie stand behind me, adjusting and re-adjusting my train so that it will ripple like small waves on the shore. Anna stands beside me, smiling at her children and me. I am shaking now. Brad and my mother come up and each give me a kiss on the cheek. They slip through the doors and Greg replaces Kevin at the door.

Kevin takes my hand and we hear the music start. Greg and Clark open the double doors so that I can see the inside of the chapel. As I start to walk in, Clark winks at me. I may have made a lot of mistakes, but at least I made a wonderful friend along the way.

Against all reason, I freeze at the beginning of the aisle. At the other end is Jae, his white sherwani with dark red embroidery perfectly matching my dress. He smiles at me, that beautiful and constant smile, and suddenly I want to fly down the aisle and into his arms. I feel like dragging my brother down the aisle with me, though decorum prevents me from doing so.

It seems hard to believe that it has been five years since David and Alice broke my heart. Its been a little more than two years since I gave up on ruining myself. Its been two years since I finally let Jae into my heart far enough to make me fall in love with him. Two years falling in love. Two years realizing I was in love.

As I float down the aisle on Kevin's arm, I can only see Jae. He has his long black hair, with its signature dark red strip, down around his shoulders. Noah is standing next to him, a few tears glittering on his lashes. I can't believe this, it feels like a dream.

Anna, Sophie and Emma follow closely behind me, gently carrying the excess of my white lace veil. Greg goes over to his video camera to make sure it is recording. My mother and Brad stand off to the side, holding hands.

After what feels like a century of walking, I am presented to Lee Jae Hwa. My rescuer, my mysterious kisser, my friend and lover. The man I, finally, decided to give my heart to.

I've never been so happy.

All the heartache, all the terrible decisions, everything, was just a prelude to this moment. It seems hard to believe that five years ago I was destroyed by betrayal on a beautiful beach where the two loves of my life fell in love with each other. Its hard to believe that any of the past few years have been real.

I think of our first encounter, in the bar, and I blush. I think of that first kiss and I want to have many more like them. For years and years to come. I think of the first time I realized that I might be in love with him and thinking I was so crazy. I still think I am crazy. Crazy for waiting so long to say yes to the one who had been chasing me for years. Crazy for making him run after me and save me from myself. For everything.

I don't want to get overly sentimental, but they say a girl gets that way on her wedding day. I don't want to look back anymore, after this I am only going to look forward.

In a white and red dress, barefoot and with honey-gold curls trailing down my back, I take Jae's hand.

Take a deep breath. Close your eyes. Here's to the plunge.

All of Her: Chapter Twenty-Seven

Noah arrives a few minutes after three, the king of 'never on time.' I am sitting behind the counter with my co-worker, chatting, when he walks in. He smiles and waves. Tossing a good bye over my shoulder, I follow Noah out the door. I hook my arm through his and we skip to his car, Dorothy and the Scarecrow off on an adventure in Oz. Noah takes me over to a new restaurant, the "Wicked Delicious," and before I know it we are seated with villainous menus full of "Witch's Brewskis."

"So, spill." says Noah, handing the menu to our waitress, who is dressed up like Harley Quinn decided to be a candy striper.

"I don't know that I can be serious in this environment, Noah." I reply, also handing my menu to the waitress. She smiles, brightly, before wandering off to get our drinks.

"Well let's start with something easy. What the hell were you thinking?"

"I don't know what I was thinking." I bury my face in my hands.

"I mean what made you think that was an okay thing to say?" he asks. I make a noise half way between a groan and a snarl.

"I don't know! I just, I was feeling too much."

"Like what? Like Celine Dion too much?" Noah leans in and drops his voice to a whisper. "Like, with your lady bits?"

"No!" I say, a furious wave of pink quickly taking over my whole face. “Well, maybe a little. But Noah I felt something else too. Like butterflies. Like, I don’t know. It was more than sexual attraction.”

“So what are you going to do?” The waitress returns with our orders and for a moment we are both lost in chewing. In-between bites of something called “Voodoo Chicken,” I stare off into space, almost longingly.

“What are you going to do?” he asks again, pulling me out of myself. He stares at me, quite intently, and I feel like he’s trying to peer into my skull.

“I don’t know. I don’t have his number even! And all I know is his first name. That’s not much to go on.” I push my food around on my plate for a minute, avoiding Noah’s eyes.

“So, how is it that he always knows where you are? Don’t you think that is a little creepy?” Noah takes a big bite of his “Ursula’s Seafood Salad” and stares me down.

“That, my dear Noah, is a very good question.”

"How do you intend to find out the answer?" he asked, taking another bite of his salad.

"Another very good question. I have no idea." I push my food around my plate some more and finally give up. I ask for a box and begin packing it up, while Noah takes care of the check.

"Might I suggest talking to him? I know its a crazy notion, but maybe you'll get an answer."

I look at him as if he just grew another head.

"You're suggesting I actually talk to him? You're not telling me to never see him again, get a restraining order, snap out of myself? Are you feeling well?"

"You know, I resemble the implication that I have always overreacted to situations. Resent, I mean resent." he smiles at me, inviting me to laugh at the joke and I smile. "Seriously though, Abe, I just want what ever is best for you. Destroying yourself over an asshole wasn't it and maybe this guy is the real deal and not a stalker. However, if he is a stalker, we always have Clark to defend us."

I laugh at that last, thinking of Clark fighting anyone, but quickly sober. Noah is right, damn it. He always is.

Somehow we find ourselves back in Noah’s car, driving back to the book store so I can pick up my car and go home. We ride in relative silence and I keep trying to think of ways that Jae isn’t as creepy as he seems.

At my car, Noah gives me a kiss on the cheek and I manage to drive myself home. Once I get there I flop on my bed, face first. Snuggles jumps onto the bed, beside me, and meows at me, nuzzling my head. I pat the bed a moment before my hand connects with a purring ball of fur and I pet him until he seems satisfied. I turn my head to look at him and he bumps my forehead, curling up next to my face.

We lay like this, Snuggles and I, for a good twenty minutes before I finally build up some semblance of motivation. I putter about the apartment for a moment, straightening miscellany before plopping down on my couch.

What if I’ve screwed everything up with Jae? What if he really is just some creepy stalker person? What if I’ve lost my damn mind? Oh, wait, that’s already happened. I heave a theatrical sigh, roll my eyes at my antics and decide I have to go to the beach.

I dig through my closet a moment, grabbing all the bits of my glow stick kite and a blanket to sit on, before leaving for the beach.

The drive doesn't soothe me and the more I think about the whole situation the more agitated I become. What if Noah is right and Jae is just like all the other men I've been with? A creep. Someone who just thinks he is madly in love with me. Someone who stalks me. I can't even stand to think about that, because I feel sick thinking about it. I realize that I actually have feelings for Jae, even though he is almost a complete stranger to me. My chest hurts as I pull into a parking spot. It continues to hurt as I unpack the car. And it hurts all the way down to the sand.

Sitting on the beach, my knees pulled up to my chest and my toes dug into the sand, I stare off into the horizon. My life has become soap operatic to the extreme and I brought it all on myself. I involved myself in dalliances, broke hearts, including my own; broke a nose, broke up a friendship. Resting my cheek against my knee, I sigh, again. A lot of things have become broken over this mess. And now, when I think I might have a chance to fix something, I realize that it might not be what it seems. And how can you fix something when you don't even know what it is.

As if he were summoned by my thoughts, Jae comes up and sits beside me. I don't jump, because when he sits down it feels as though he has been sitting beside me for years.

"How do you always know where I am?" I ask, glancing over at him. He looks very serious, his lime colored eyes searching the darkening horizon. "Are you stalking me?"

"It does seem that way, doesn't it?" he replies, nonchalantly. He looks at me and I feel this rising bubble of something inside me. I don't know what to call it, this combination of hope and desire and fear, but it feels as though my chest may explode.

"Yes, it does."

"Its mostly coincidence, to be honest. Though, I feel like it is more fate than coincidence. I will admit to having some stalker-ish tendencies. I passed you and your girlfriend at the grocery store a couple times and then when I saw her picture in the obituaries I had to see you. I was worried about you, every time I saw you with her it was as if you had discovered color for the first time. I can't imagine what it must have been like to find her."

I feel myself tearing up, imagining Annabelle and I wandering the grocery store and him passing us.

"I may have also called every book store in the area. Twice." he looks sheepish at that last, ducking his head a bit. I laugh and, instinctively, lean over to kiss him. Its a short kiss, but when I pull away and look into his eyes, he pulls me back to him and kisses me in earnest. I feel all the mixed emotions expand in my chest, my face flushing with excitement and anxiety. After a moment, I push away, gently placing my hands against his chest and putting a silent wall between us.

"Abra," he says, looking concerned. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No," I say, shaking my head. "No. I just, I'm not ready, Jae. I'm not ready to be in another relationship. I'm not ready, though I wish I were. I don't even know your last name or your phone number. You're like a ghost that appears to haunt me and then leaves me questioning my sanity. I don't know how to be around you because I have so many different feelings that won't let me think or breathe."

"Lee."

"What?"

"My last name is Lee. And my full name is Jae Hwa. I'll give you my phone number. I'm willing to go slowly. I'm willing to do anything you want. I'm willing to wait forever, Abra." He holds my hand in between both of his and looks at me, his face so serious, but his eyes are sparkling.

He says my name like it is the sweetest thing he's ever tasted. He says it and it is the most exciting and erotic thing I have ever heard. He says it and I believe he means every word he says. I look at him, the ache in my chest becoming almost unbearable. All I want is to be held.

"Abra," he gently pulls me toward him, mumbling my name into my hair. He hesitates a moment, to see if I will pull away again, and his eyes search my face for something I don't know. He sighs and holds me against his chest. He inhales slowly, as though he were trying to breathe all of me in.

"I love you." he says, pulling back to look at me, smiling. And I believe him.

The Gasp

He held her down, kissing her passionately.
She rocked against him, hands frantic.
He pressed himself into her and delighted in her gasp of pleasure.

Carousel (9/19/2013)

Georgia walked further into the abandoned apple orchard. The last rays of sunlight filtered through the twisted branches and a summer fog began to settle.

The sound of carnival music, drifting through the night air, seemed to announce her entrance. In the middle of the meadow, lit up like the fourth of July, stood an old carousel.

The horses rose and fell to the carnival music. The lights twirled and danced, illuminating the grassy meadow with pink and gold sparks.

The air bristled as she stepped toward the carousel and a great wind seemed to blow the lights out. She gasped, suddenly surrounded by shadows.

Phantom laughter sent shivers up her spine.

Her body was never found.

Android (9/18/2013)

Julia stepped out of the neon pools of light into the shadows of an alleyway. It seemed darker in the alley, as if the glittery psychedelia of the bar signs were being swallowed up. There was something else off about this particular alley, but she didn't turn away.

She felt drawn in, the fear and the curiosity driving her further and further into the dark. She reached a dead-end, almost close enough to kiss the white brick, and sighed. Gingerly, she caressed the brick, half expecting to find a knob or opening.

When an android, his synthetic flesh torn on his chest and face, walked through and grabbed her, she did not have the breath to scream.

The house is not for sale

There was a loud banging downstairs, like one of the children had climbed out of bed and was pounding on pots and pans. Jesse rolled over, groaning, and nudged his wife.

"Hmm..." she mumbled, rolling away from him. He rubbed his eyes and propped himself up on an elbow. The sun was streaming through the bay window of their bedroom, the smell of sea salt, ever present in their coastal Maine home, drifted past him and the banging seemed to increase.

"Honey," he murmured, leaning over and kissing her earlobe. She smiled, bumping her body into his and curling up further into the blankets. Smiling, he kissed her again and threw his legs over the edge of the bed.

His fuzzy slippers seemed to have disappeared and he swung himself, precariously, over the edge to glance under the bed. Oddly, there was no cat under the bed, her usual play place completely abandoned, and there were no slippers. Lifting himself back onto the bed, he glanced at the clock. It was only seven, the kids usually didn't wake up until nine or so. For a moment he considered flopping back onto the bed and just let the children do as they would, but the banging grew louder and there was no way he would go back to sleep now.

He yawned and stretched, scratching at himself a bit as he shuffled to the bathroom. A quick glance in the mirror showed him that he was in desperate need of a shave. Not that Abby minded his five o'clock shadow. He splashed some water on his face and thrust his fingers through the tangle of his brown hair. It was too early for the day to start like this, he thought, being careful to watch for toys on the stairs.

Everything became very quiet as he reached the second to last step. He half expected to hear little voices whispering, giggles or something, coming from the kitchen. Rounding a corner, he saw that the kitchen was empty and strangely clean. It wasn't that his wife kept a messy house, but with five children it was hard to keep things spotless. Except, the kitchen looked pristine, almost sterile. Had Abby stayed up all night cleaning?

He swung open the refrigerator door, expecting to grab a carton of milk, and gaped in shock. The fridge was not only barren, but it was not plugged in either. Cocking his head to the side, he closed the door, counted to ten and opened it again. It was still empty. He jumped when he heard the banging again. It sounded like it was coming from outside, but when he glanced out the window he didn't see anything.

He walked down the carpeted hallway toward the children's rooms, a feeling he couldn't quite explain settling in his bones, his feet no longer shuffling. He opened the door to Jack's room, expecting to bump into one of his son's elaborately laid out train tracks, but the room was bare. The walls, once painted with train cars, were white-washed and the furniture was gone. For a moment, all he could do was stare in horror, then he stumbled out and practically flew to the other children's rooms.

All five rooms stood barren, all the furniture gone and all the walls painted over. There were no children, no toys, no cat, no slippers, no food. Nothing. Reeling, Jesse slumped against the door frame, unable to process what was happening. Then, with a jolt, he ran toward the living room. The banging sound had returned, always just out of sight and, with it, he began to hear voices. Almost colliding with a built in shelf, he slid across the wooden floor and into the living room. A few pieces of furniture were covered with sheets and the door was wide open. He ran to the door and leaned out, glancing all around. At the end of the drive way he could see men, in paint splattered moving uniforms, loading furniture into a truck marked "Happy Harry's Moving and Painting."

"Hey!" he cried, waving his arms at the men. "Hey! You can't do that! Stop!"

The men seemed oblivious, continuing to move the furniture into the truck. Jesse tried to dash at them, but made it two steps off the porch before he felt something stop him. He punched at the invisible barrier, screaming at the moving men. He beat his fists against the air, ranting, tears streaming down his cheeks. Having heard the commotion, Abby came up behind him, her bathrobe wrapped about her and her face very pale.

"Jesse," she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "What's going on? Who are those men?"

"I don't know," he shouted, not turning to look at his wife, still pounding against the barricade.

"Honey, stop, please!" she cried, hugging him from behind. Leaning against the unseen wall, he sighed.

Gently, he undid her hold on him and turned so that he could hug her. They held each other for a moment, before they walked back into the house. What furniture was left in the living room was covered in white sheets, presumably to protect them from the painting that was going on. The wallpaper had been stripped from the walls and everything had been painted a shimmering shade of white. All the pictures were gone, all the cabinets empty. They sat across from each other on the kitchen floor, facing each other, but not looking at each other.

"I don't understand what's happening." said Abby, tears streaming down her face. She had pulled her knees up to her chest, something she hadn't done since she was a teenager. She kept imagining the faces of her children as they played on the beach, their faces shining in the sunlight.

They could hear the men working, coming in and out, shuffling the furniture. The smell of paint hung in the air, fighting with the clean smell of the sea. Slowly, the house became empty, as empty as the day they bought it. The men talked as they moved the furniture, laughing or arguing, it was hard to tell which.

"Do you remember when we bought this place?" asked Jesse, looking intently at an oaken cabinet door.

"I remember." replied Abby, a small smile escaping. "You danced with me, twirling me across the wooden floor and you even dipped me."

"You were pregnant with Kait, at the time. I wanted to make you happy."

She was quiet for a moment, reveling in memories, before looking at her husband, tears shimmering on her lashes.

"I've always been happy with you." she said. He motioned for her and she scooted across the floor to him, curling up in his arms. He stroked her hair, in a soothing way, holding her closely.

"What happened here, Max?" asked a voice.

"Carbon Monoxide poisoning. Took the whole family." replied a voice.

The ghosts sat on the floor, not talking, listening to the sounds of their world collapsing.

The Ring of Roses

Mama's face is hot and flushed. Her once creamy complexion is now worryingly florid.

Our neighbours stay away and have taken to lighting bundles of twigs around our house to warn others. We all know that it means death is visiting. We are called "roses," my sister and I, and people cross themselves as we walk by. They ring the house, at night, with fire, hoping to cleanse the air of disease. It won't work. It never does.

Mama insists we keep posy petals in our pockets to protect us from what we cannot see. She is delirious oftentimes and can't seem to see that it is too late. Papa died last week and my sister and I dragged him out to be burned with the myriad of other dead.

We had been safe, but then Mama's face, once so clear and bright, became something else. The blisters gathered, like a vulture to carrion, around her beautiful lips and the "roses" bloomed upon her cheeks. My older sister, Mary, tends her while I chop wood for our meager fire.

The ashes. The ashes fall down, they are forever falling, and they leave nothing untouched. There is no respite to this wickedness, this plague. Only the ashes. The fires, the ashes, the stench. It never ends. All of the men in our village, those who have not died, pile the corpses in the ditches and light them. These, once human, torches blaze so brightly that day and night are indistinguishable. And the ashes fall like snow over the trees and the pastures.

Mama collapses and Mary tries to lift her. But they have both become too weak. The roses have bloomed on Mary's cheeks and it is only a matter of time before she succumbs to this terrible curse.

I place her rosary about her neck and begin to plead with the Virgin to spare what is left of my family. My cries fall on deaf ears, for, in the morning, I discover my mother dead.

There is a ring around the roses, a small ring of light to brighten the night as I bury my mother with a pocket full of posies. The ashes, the ever-present ashes, fall into my hair and my eyelashes as I struggle to lay my sister to rest.

It comes for us all, in time. From the strongest of men to the weakest of babes.

We all fall down.

Another Moment

I was eleven in 1999. My brother was nine and my sister was almost four.

I don't think it was the first year that my mother let us stay up for New Year's Eve, but it was one of the first years she let us.

Y2K was everywhere. It was the new Communist scare; the newest trend in fear. We were going to be set back from the technological age.

For me it was exciting. I have always dreamed that we would be forced back in time. It is an idea that I've tried to write about too. I love history so much that it made me think that we would start dressing like we did in the 1800's again, start speaking properly and acting like we were civilized. Much to my chagrin, that isn't what would've actually happened if technology had been decimated.

On this particular New Year's Eve, on the brink of a new millenia, my brother and I were staying up for midnight. Hannah had already been put to bed, mostly against her will as she had wanted to be a big girl and stay up too. She fell asleep shortly before ten and I carried her to our shared bedroom. Chris and I hadn't fully decided what we wanted to do.

If I recall correctly, we played some records before we decided to watch a movie.

Of course our first choice was "Much Ado About Nothing."

My mother has always been very eclectic in her tastes (which is where I got it!) and her love of classical things is what influenced me in my love for the same. Shakespeare was one of my first loves. Elvis came first, though.

Anywho, this was one of our favorite films. It still is. So we watched that. That killed some time, but not enough for midnight.

It was around this time that Ivan, a dear family friend, called to wish us Happy New Year. I told him that Mom had gone to bed with a migraine and that Chris and I were watching Shakespeare movies until midnight. He offered to come over and watch movies with us. And bring pizza.

When he arrived we decided to watch "Henry V."

Which, in case you didn't know, is a war movie. It is one of the only war movies I enjoy, because it is Shakespeare in all his glory. And Kenneth Branagh. That helps too... Because it is a war movie, that automatically means that it is bloody. As in VERY bloody. Nothing like blood and pizza on the brink of what was supposed to be the Technological Apocalypse, right?

Anyway, Ivan kept covering his eyes. He isn't fond of blood and gore. Neither am I, usually, but for this particular movie I make an exception. Did I mention Kenneth Branagh is in it? Where was I? Oh right, the movie.

So, Chris and I, being terrible children, kept teasing Ivan and telling him that the blood was gone. Of course he would peep out from between his fingers and see there was still plenty of blood on the screen and cover them back up. And we would giggle like it was the funniest thing ever. Which, at the time, it was.

I don't know why, but I've been thinking about this particular memory a lot lately. Nostalgia in my old age? Who knows.

I miss those times. I miss believing that everything was going to be fine. I miss believing that we were all going to make it somehow. I miss being closer to my sister. I miss having a family.

I still have a family, but it feels different. It has changed so much from the family it used to be. We are still Debra, Sarai, Chris and Hannah. But we are different. We are much changed from the people we used to be. Sometimes I don't think we are changed for the better.

Sometimes I miss living in that little blue trailer, in the middle of nowhere. Surrounded by fields full of alfalfa and woods that held such beautiful mysteries. I miss riding my bike up and down that gravel road. I miss our dogs. I miss my knitting lessons and sneaking peeks of naughty movies while babysitting. I miss sharing a room with my baby sister, with an old and tattered poster of a Degas ballerina. I miss listening to Simon and Garfunkel on the record player. I even miss listening to old sermon tapes.

I miss the deer heads and the mounted fish. I miss fishing and playing in the snow.

I miss making homemade pizza with my mom. I miss playing chess with my brother. I miss reading to my mom.

What I miss most is what you can see in our pictures.

I miss what we used to be, when we were happy. Not when we were fighting, not when we were being abused, not when we were miserable. I miss those sparkling moments that linger in my memory where we were happy and we were a family.

Omphalos: Prologue: Carly

I suppose it is no secret that this whole mess is my fault. I accept full responsibility for it.

I am the one who committed adultery.

I am the one who stopped communicating.

I am the one who grew lazy and stopped trying.

I am the one who burned all my bridges.

I take full responsibility for this. And I regret it with all my heart.

I have always known that relationships, especially marriages, take maintenance. I knew that it would take one hundred percent on both parts to work. I knew, but I grew lazy. I let my husband do all the work. I let him try to compensate for my shortcomings. I let him believe it was through some fault of his and not my own.

So it should not come as a surprise that this marriage, and friendship, is coming to a bitter end. It should come as no surprise that my behaviour, and stupidity, has caused all this. I know I should let this go as gracefully as possible. I've already caused enough damage. I am sorry.

I am so sorry. I know we will never be the same again. Just like with a broken leg, our gait will never be the same as it once was. But I want to try! I want to attempt to fix this, attempt to rebuild. I want a second chance, even though I know I don't deserve one.

Is there anyway to fix it?

Would you be willing to try?

The Asthma Attack (WIP)

We arrive on this scene to find it in disarray. There seems to be an interesting battle taking place and the whole of the battlefield is a set of heaving lungs. The lungs seem to be in some kind of stand off with the immune system, all weapons aimed and primed for the battle.

Left Lung: Sir, I ask you to kindly holster your weapons. We are of one body, YOUR body. We are a part of this system and it is quite silly of you to be attacking us in this manner.

A Bronchial Tube: *he is clearly contracted and struggling to maintain airflow* I think I may explode, sir. I can't take much more. Where is our back up?

Immune System Sargent 1: I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid you don't have the proper clearance to be a part of this system. I'm going to have to ask you to cease and desist all operation immediately or we will have to resume our attacks.

Right Lung: *into a tiny radio* Where the fuck is our back-up?! We can't take much more and they aren't backing down! Requesting immediate back-up!

There is a loud whistling and wheezing that can be heard throughout the set of lungs, a warning siren trying to contact their back-up.

Immune System Sargent 2: Fuck this, its a trap! FIRE!

The Immune System begins an all out assault upon the lungs and bronchial tubes, which have full constricted, restricting air flow. The wheezing gets louder with every attempted intake of oxygen.

Right Lung: We are running low on O2, Commander. Where is our back-up?!

Voice Over: We're deploying as fast as possible, hold your positions!

Left Lung: Things are starting to look a little hazy, Sir. I'm beginning to feel a little blue-ish.

Voice Over: Maintain your positions! We are all apart of this same body, we can't let them destroy it!

Another Bronchial Tube: Intake valves completely blocked. O2... cannot... be... taken. *He quickly passes out*

Immune System Sargent 1: Keep firing men! Destroy the interlopers!

Immune System Sargent 2: For the love of Body, where the hell is all this haze coming from?

Left Lung: That's because we can't get to our reserves of O2, you idiots! Without it everything looks hazy. You have to hold your fire so we can reopen the conduits!

Immune System Sargent 2: NEVER! ITS A TRAP!

Right Lung: YOU WATCH TOO MUCH FUCKING STAR WARS! For the love of Body, hold your fucking fire!

Just as everything seems lost, the area above the lungs and immune system fills with a soft mist. Steroidal Paratroopers drop in and begin spraying the area. The Immune System retreats and the Bronchial tubes are revived.

Immune System Sargent 2: *clearly high* Why were we fighting again? Everything is too pretty to fight.

Immune System Sargent 1: *quickly losing to the effects of the steroids* I know right? Everything is so... red. Such a pretty red. I wanted to be red once.

Immune System Sargent 2: Dude, those lungs look like water balloons. Did you notice?

Immune System Sargent 1: I think you are drunk, Sargent. They most definitely look like heaving red petals, barely hanging on to the flower stems.

Right Lung: Man, that stuff works fast.

A Steroidal Paratrooper: That's what you wanted right? Fast back-up?

Left Lung: Not complaining. Just in awe of how fast your fast is.

A Steroidal Paratrooper: That should keep them occupied for a while. *the Paratroopers retreat further up leaving the lungs and bronchial tubes to assess and reverse any damage*

Right Lung: Its too bad that this peace can't last.

Left Lung: There is no way to convince them that we are part of them is there?

Right Lung: Unfortunately, no. This immune system is too damaged to realize the truth. We just have to continue maintaining our ground.

Left Lung: In a never-ending civil war. Sounds almost poetic, don't you think?

Writing Exercise 1: Musket Ball

Imagination is a wellspring of clear water to a thirsty man. Which is how we come by this eclectic story about a lead ball fired from a musket.

A long time ago, in a land most people call Australia, there was an imaginary war going on over kangaroos. It started very quietly, a simple argument here and there. It then escalated until the entire continent was divided into two sides; the side for kangaroos and the side for unicorns. Now why they were fighting is a mystery as there are no unicorns, even in an imaginary war in Australia.

Our lead character, a humble musket ball, was born into this insanity, a quiet and unimpressive birth. The quintessence of his batch, which was full of impurities, he journeyed forth to conquer in the name of kangaroos, or kaleidoscopes, he really wasn't sure. Unable to read a lick of cursive he almost missed out, as his orders were entirely in cursive Australian.

He crossed deserts and the oceans, seeing mermaids and oracles. It was a linear procession, all the way from one side of Australia to the other. Somehow they managed to be really late for the battle. When they arrived it had all but ended. Out of politeness it raged on for two more months before everyone, berated by their own insanity, admitted that it was a stupid war anyway.

Unfortunately for our musket ball he had been fired into a creative operator named Marty. Marty was a persistent bastard with quite a geological outlook. Unfortunately for Marty, the musket ball was lead and he soon died of lead poisoning. After that the musket ball decided to live his life as a material girl, even though he had no money, nor was he a girl.

It was shortly after this, that he met a woman best described as Xanthippe and virginal. The flowers always wilted, the wishing was wasted on a sour attitude. Also, anatomically speaking, it could never be. Before he was bludgeoned to death by said woman, he gallantly made his way to Atlantis.

In Atlantis he wrote quiet dirges and robust canticles, attempting adornment for a dead world. Finding this endeavor abortive, he decided to use his charisma to get a telemarketing job in Japan. As he didn't speak any Japanese, he found himself out of a job. It was at this time in his life that the realization came to him. What realization it might have been I don't know, but it made him decide to travel to England in search of knighthood and kingly status. Irritated by his abasement, being only a musket ball, he found he could not be knighted as he was born in a penal colony. Jeering and peasant comments chased him out of England and toward Mars.

Finding the atmosphere on Mars more personable, he decided to open a nuclear nether region store. He managed it quite well for a time, nearly tasting victory. Magnets were his most popular sales. Having a vested interest, he watchfully enjoyed his solitude.

Salvation came in the form of reason and deltoid muscles as he realized selling magnets to Martians was not how he wanted to spend his life. He deleted himself from Martian history and followed his sudden urge to play violin.

He purchased a violet violin for a quixotic and romantic performance. Optimism soared with each crescendo, a textured soliloquy of undulating zest and dessication. It was only eclipsed by an elaborate fluttering of gelid waves. Hurried by this, he was suspended in time and leaves. Loved by littering verbs, his entire environment was under x-ray. A glimpse of an original juxtaposition involving Cupid and Venus illuminated a xanthic land. Yellow and hateful it made the musket ball yelp. A yodel ripped through the earth, forcing a shutter and teasing sensation through a magical xylophone.

A zebra appeared to the musket ball and he rode it like a Zamboni into the sunset. Justified by filtering, he was hungry for something purely naughty. A yearling skipped past him into a giant zipper. Jealousy erupted inside him, so that he hunted the yearling through the zipper. Inside he was tested by his own conscience. Except, he didn't have a conscience being a lead ball. He felt falsified by this information and he reverted back to consciousness.

"It was all a dream!" He realized. He was a person, not a musket ball. Taking up a quill, he began to write about his adventures. His reconciliation to this is how this crazy story came to be.

All of Her: Prologue

"I'm still in love with all of her."

He says that and my heart breaks, because I know it's true. I can imagine them entangled, wrapped up in pink sheets and pink flesh. It isn't fair, of course, but I can see that it doesn't matter what is fair and what is not.

Am I an idiot for wishing it was me instead?

I smile, a wobbly smile that speaks of tears and regret. He doesn't notice, he is staring off into her distance. The beach feels like it is trying to swallow me whole. The ocean is rocking and he is rocking away and into her arms. I'm still just standing there. Watching the two loves of my life fall in love with each other.

Its like a punch to my chest, really. Like he just took a rusty nail and pounded it into my heart.

I feel like getting drunk. I watch them swimming off into the sunset, like a couple of mer-people to Atlantis. Or maybe that is my broken heart's imagination. Its a little ridiculous, looking at it from where I am now.

"What did you say?" he asks.

I am snapped out of my depressing daydreams. Did I say something out loud? Was I just voicing my inner monologues? Oh shit.

"Hmm? I didn't say anything." I start walking away. He doesn't follow, so I take this as a good sign. Everything has reduced to slow motion action movie, that moment where the good guy moves just in time kind of moment. Except, instead of action it is me being a bit of a child and trying to run away from something I don't understand.

The time has come, the walrus says, to talk of many things. He is right, of course, even talking walruses can be right sometimes. Unfortunately for myself, I don't feel like talking about anything. Is it strange that I have a walrus in my head rather than shoulder angels/devils? Thank Alice for that, of course.

I have decided to run away. Or cry. Either seems viable at this moment. Alice and David are off in their wonderland, in love and laughing. I turn, still in slow motion, and see them kissing and smiling that sweet and innocent smile of a first and only love. Damn it, why did I look back?

I feel like Lot's wife, like I've just been turned into salt because I glanced back. I'm frozen and slightly raw, like the wound just got scrubbed. Ridiculous really, to liken my feelings to some woman who may or may not have existed and may or may not have been turned into a pillar of salt. And now that I think about it, how did they know she got turned into a pillar of salt if they weren't allowed to look back? Or were they behind her when she looked back?

Now I'm just rambling.

Nothing changes the fact that Alice and David are still canoodling and I'm still being a child and walking away. Again with my stupid and irrational inner monologues.

It is time for a change. A distance of sorts. I'm not running away.

Okay, I am.

Who can blame me really? It isn't fair. Not fair at all. I want to scream or bleat like a billy goat. Neither one of those things will do a damn bit of good. I know that. Plus, I'll just look like an idiot. So, time for a change of scenery, Abra. Time to rethink everything in a different location.

The only real question now is: Where?

Georgia Sunrise

   Quiet and subtle. Gently taking over the sky. Tinges of pink,
yellow and blue. Not held back by bars or doors.
   Pushing against the night, straining for the day. Gracing
the day with beauty and light. Hiding, shyly, behind trees.
   Pushing, changing to orange. Straining for more color and
light. Dancing on a cloud. Racing the cars on the highway.
   Soft dew hangs on the air, waiting for the signal. Glory and
majesty, beauty and grace. Peeking from behind the trees and
peering at the people below.
   Sweeping across the sky, taking one's breath away with the
sheer majesty of it.

Introduction to a Murder

It started with their murders,
   but we must go back to the
time before that. A time when every-
   thing was right, when they were
alive and the killer was sane. A time
   when life, love and the pursuit of
happiness was just a dream. And
   a time when murderers were caught
and the victims released from their
   prison of blood and bones.

1961

Present

Looking back, glancing over his life.

The past and the regrets.

Quiet and calm, he holds the gun to his temple and pulls the trigger, he holds her picture to his heart as the blood stains the pillow, his head falls backs.

Clutched to him, she is frozen in time and memory.

She is not his wife.

Past

A string of pearls encircle an ivory throat. She stands in front of the hallway mirror, gazing off into space and time, dreaming of nights long since forgotten in the abyss of memory and life. She tries to tear her eyes away from the pearls against her skin, tries to forget the reason they will never be her own. She looks into the dark blue eyes of a stranger, her doppelganger and twin, but a complete stranger. Her hand, coming up from her hips, falls back from those white drops of sand and lies placidly against the fabric of her skirt.

A voice calls somewhere in the distance, she turns from the mirror and another hand comes up to remove the pearls that now threaten to strangle her. She tears them away from her skin, the string breaking and pearls bursting from their captor’s hands to scatter on the mahogany floor. She doesn’t even stop to pick them up and, instead, runs away from the voice and out of the house. She tries to erase the image of pearls hitting the wooden floor, tries to un-hear the sound of them tinkling and the voice calling.

She loved him.

Past

He stands next to the reverend performing the ceremony, flanked by four gentlemen in black tuxedos. He watches his bride, on the arm of her father, float down the aisle. She is beautiful. Long, silky, blonde hair flowing down her back, tiny violets entwined in twin braids tied behind her head. She smiles at him, a timid smile, a rosy blush deepens across her face. Light blue eyes flick from the floor to him, barely meeting his gaze. As she turns to receive a kiss from her father, those eyes never leave his, blazing and bright.

He takes her hand, facing her as his performance begins. This will be his most brilliant of pieces. He feels her tremble, watches her lips move as she repeats the words given. He stares at her lips, not comprehending, refusing to understand what she says. He parrots the same words, a smile plastered to his face. He hears his voice and doesn’t know who is speaking. Cold metal is produced, he slides it along her finger. Such a sexual act, he thinks. He thinks of another girl as they kiss and turns to greet his audience as they are pronounced man and wife.

He doesn’t love her.

Present

She reads of his death in the newspaper. She knows, without looking, he is survived by a wife and three sons.

She reads how he was clutching her picture.

She drops the newspaper, her hands shaking and her heart reeling.

She looks over at the softly snoring figure beside her. She smiles warmly, recovering from shock a little at a time. She snuggles closer to the man beside her, withering and wrinkled hands entwining. She knows she made the right choice.

She sheds a tear for the man who lost her.