Quiet Revolutions

The creeks ran red that year and the trees were leveled.
The endlessly stretching plains seemed even more desolate,
burning under a blackened sky.

Brothers killed brothers, mothers were left to bury their sons.
The winter storms never cease, they just pause for a breath.
The ice crunched beneath boots, decaying spirits wandering.

The creeks ran red with the blood of revolutionaries,
the snow stained with bloody footprints, desolation in the wake,
the earth scarred beyond recognition.

Brother was buried by the creek, a lonesome tree as a marker.
Left that place, but never truly left it, soaked into the ground.
Revolutions are hardly ever quiet.

Walking through Eden

I pick at everything. Every imperfection on my skin is made worse by the constant need to pick at it. I can't stop myself from doing it. Its a remnant from when I would slice my skin to let something inside me out. I pick, pry and pull until the imperfection has become a permanent fixture to my landscape. Then I look at myself and curse at the scars.

I used to be proud of my scars, because they were me. They were a permanent reminder of where I had come from, what I had survived.

Now, I'm ashamed. I'm ashamed of my face, my skin, my body. I feel like Eve in Eden, suddenly naked and fully aware, exposed to the face of God and wondering how I ended up like this. It feels like I am doing the walk of shame to the gates of Eden, all the beautiful people pointing and laughing as I'm escorted out by the angel Michael. I look at my feet.

I've never stood as tall as I could, for fear I'd be beaten back down. I took those beatings, those scars and I made them my own. Some days, it feels like they own me.

I fall into the thinking pattern that no one could ever love me just as I am. Though I'm married and have been with the same man for five years. I fall into step with the thoughts from my childhood, the thoughts that led to making scars. The belief that who I am is nothing because I am not beautiful and I never will be.

I mourn the face in the mirror. The one that was beautiful once, when I couldn't recognize the beauty, and is now pock-marked with acne and scars.

I can find no worth within, because I'm so out of place in this "Eden." I used to refuse make-up because if someone couldn't accept me as I was they didn't deserve me with make-up. Now all I want to do is hide the scars with a pound of foundation, smooth all the ugliness from my inner turmoils.

Its different when its you. Its so easy to be a feminist, to fight against the myth of beauty, to tell someone they are beautiful. Its not easy when its you.

Wandering Soul

I met a man on the train, headed south of here.
He wore a black suit, the lapels crisp as autumn winds.
His hair was brown, slicked back with bacon grease.
He wore a red boutonnière, its petals twisted and wilted.
His smile was diminutive, as if he were afraid.

His words dripped from his tongue, like Dali's clocks.
He spoke in verse, his cadence like birds flitting.
His tongue pondered poison, his heart bleeding on his sleeve.
He drifted through conversation, a wandering soul.
I admired his stature, his height relative to his speech.

I watched him as we traveled, headed further south.
He cried in his sleep, his jacket soon soaked with them.
His whispered dreams spread, seeping into his skin.
He did not cry out, simply weeping against the window.
His lapels were no longer crisp, his flowers wilted.

His last words were lost, the wind snatched them away.
He smiled sadly, climbing down the steps to the platform.
His smile slipped away, all the light blown out like a candle.
He fell to the platform, the blood rejuvenating his boutonnière.
I did not cry, only slid the Derringer back into my bag.

Kool-Aid

You tasted of kool-aid in the summer of my youth. A sparkling flower plucked in the prime of its bloom. You tasted so sweet in those days. Your words were even sweeter, dripping off your tongue like honey from the comb. You spoke like the angels sing. You kissed me like I was the only heart you had ever held.

And I fell for you. I fell in love with your kool-aid kisses and it would be forever summer.

You tasted like past lovers in the autumn of my youth. The leaves beginning to yellow and bloody in the waning light. You tasted of familiarity and old memories. Your tone had changed, no longer as sweet, but familiar to me. You spoke like fairy tales, comforting. You kissed me like I was someone you once knew.

And I loved you still. I fought for the peace we had held, like lightning bugs, at the end of summer.

You tasted like bitter fruit in the winter of our youth. Our hearts lay like roses beneath the snow. You no longer kissed me in the twilight of our relationship. Your words were few and the silences more telling than any word. You spoke like the shovelful of dirt on the casket of our love. The last kiss you gave me was like a needle through my heart.

And I loved you still. Though we fell apart, crumbling like the words we said when you tasted like kool-aid.

Useless Lump of Flesh

She opens the door to find you, naked, in bed with another man. As soon as you see her, you begin to shrivel. The red hot lust, that roller-coaster pumping through your veins, you felt a mere moment ago also wilts and is replaced with disgust and shame. You cover yourself in a half-hearted, and vain, attempt to change what she sees.

Her eyes, tear bright with betrayal, seem to take in every detail. She lingers on your, unconvincing, modesty before drifting to the blatant arousal of your chosen partner. Those eyes, so full of pain and a flicker of hope, move back to you. They are filled with the hope that you'll find some way to undo the damage being done.

Pissed off, at her, at yourself, at the world; you stand up and grab her arm. Steering her away from the door frame, you drag her into the kitchen. You throw her arm towards her, as if it were diseased, and you wipe your hands against your skin. Absently, you note you are still nude and you hear the distinct click of the bedroom door closing.

"You weren't supposed to be home until next week." you hiss. You sound angry, accusing, as if this is somehow her fault. You act as if the situation were reversed and you just walked in on her. Its her fault you feel ashamed and sick with self-loathing. Its her fault for being too pretty, too perfect. Its her fault that you can't maintain in bed, your manhood like a lifeless lump of flesh in her hands. Its her fault you were in bed with another man. It is her fault.

"I... I missed you..." she stutters, tears falling down her, stupidly, pretty face. You want to slap the tears off her face and give her a true reason to cry. You want to be the man who kisses away her tears at the same moment. You just stand there, angry and out of sorts. She wipes a tear away with her sleeve, unable to look at you. You can almost feel those tears stabbing into you like accusing darts.

You don't say anything, though a self-destructive, and false, righteousness rises out of the ashes of your withered libido. You push her up against the counter and you kiss her, crushing her lips with yours. She gasps between those hard kisses, struggling against you only a moment before she begins to return the kiss. You feel her hand begin to stray between your legs and you flip her around, bending her over the counter.

You stop then, anger rising anew, and you grasp a fistful of her hair and drag her toward the door. You fling it open and throw her out onto the grass, where she lands, unceremoniously. Retreating to the bedroom you retrieve her forgotten luggage and proceed to chuck it out on the lawn with her. You slam the door, lock it and collapse in a heap on the, spotless, linoleum floor.

When you stand up, you glance out of the window and see that she is gone. A soft clearing of the throat brings your attention back to the man you were in bed with. He is dressed and holding himself in an aloof way. He almost seems to be looking down on you, even though you are about the same height. You know he won't stay, not now, not after that. You hold up a hand, as if to stop his excuses from becoming words that can't be taken back. Holding yourself as straight as possible, you unlock and open the door for him. He doesn't even look at you as he exits and you don't bother to say anything.

You go to your room, sit on the bed, and bury your face in your hands.

The Release of Echo (Part 1)

Echo had been banished, cursed, for a very long time. So many centuries had passed that she had lost count. It was like being mute, but somehow worse. The only words she was able to speak were repeats. She could voice no independent thoughts or opinions. She was unable to speak at all, unless it was to parrot others. No one seemed to want to say anything interesting either. IT was always "hello," sometimes her own name and, more often than not, profanity.

Spiteful Hera. It really wasn't Echo's fault Zeus couldn't remain faithful. Why should she be punished when it was his idea she tell a story? How was she supposed to know what Zeus was really doing? It was supposed to be a lovely story and it was all spoiled by Zeus and Hera.

They had gotten their comeuppance though. All the gods had been forced into sleep by a lack of devotion. They had been beaten out by the latest religions; Christianity, Islam, Judaism. Monotheistic religion was the latest craze, like a poison. It had spread until all the gods were touched.

Echo, however, still had a place in the world, thanks to Hera's spite. Perhaps she should cut her some slack? What kind of existence was this, though? It was miserable like this. No one ever said what she wanted to say. It was lonely. It wasn't as if she could live among the regular people. Eventually they would catch on that she wasn't normal. They'd discover she was old, almost as old as the world.

"Stupid Zeus." she thought. He was handsome, well, had been handsome once. She had flirted with the idea of sleeping with him, once. However, she had played attendant to Hera enough times to have seen her temper unleashed. Look at Hercules, look at her! Maybe she should've seen this coming.

Tucking a narcissus into her hair, she sighed. She had found a small reflecting pool, some piece of Gaia she could call  home. However, the need for companionship, even if it was only to parrot, would drive her away. Her search for dank tunnels and small canyons seemed never-ending.

She didn't quite run to her latest haunting ground, but she didn't walk either. The thought of being discovered terrified her. How many times had she run from the puppets of Pan? How many times had she been almost killed by those who couldn't understand what she was? It was dangerous being a nymph in the modern age. It was dangerous being only an echo.

Lingering in the shadows of a tunnel, Echo marked the passing of Apollo's chariots. The chariots of Artemis were fast approaching and full dark would be soon. She envied the twins. At least they had a purpose, some reason to continue, and without fear. Hera hadn't tried to punish them and they were born of Zeus' infidelity. It made her angry to think of what she had been reduced to. She had been a story teller, a nymph with good standing. Stupid Hera.

Shaking her head, she pushed thought aside. It would only make her cry. There was no point in crying either.

As it grew darker, she heard voices approaching. Surely one of those voices wouldn't be able to pass without shouting. It was perfect, getting dark and abandoned. It would give them an eerie feeling and a rush. Then they would scurry off into the night, leaving her to the night animals.

"Hello!" called a timid voice. The sound reverberated in her chest before responding.

"Hello!" she repeated, timidly.

"Hello!" the voice called again, bolder now.

"Hello!" she echoed.

"Come on, let's go. Who wants to hear an echo?" said another voice.

"Hear an echo?" she repeated, already bored with these voices.

"Its fun." replied the first voice, sounding slightly annoyed.

"Its fun." she echoed, faintly.

"Whatever." said the second voice, flippantly.

"Whatever." she replied.

There was a silence settling into the tunnel so that she thought the voices had gone. She would wait a few moments longer before rushing back to her reflecting pool, back to her piece of Gaia. She had almost decided to leave when she heard the second voice.

"I want..." said the voice, speaking so softly Echo could barely hear.

"I want..." she whispered back.

"Want to be..." said the voice, growing stronger.

"Want to be..." Echo could feel something bubbling inside her as she repeated the words. She felt like she was having a heart attack. Everything was painfully alive suddenly. It was like hanging off a cliff, waiting for the landing.

"FREE!" screamed the voice, full of anguish and longing.

"Free!" the word ripped from her throat in a scream of triumph. "Free! Free! Free!" she kept repeating until her voice was a whisper.

The second voice, seemingly satisfied, had faded and disappeared in the darkness.

Running as fast as she could, she raced back to her place. Kneeling beside the water, her whole body vibrated like a tuning fork. She was shaking so hard she could barely make out her reflection.

A pressure was building up in her chest; like a fist pushing upward from her stomach. It had slowly gotten worse, becoming more and more crippling.

Without warning, the feelings hit the base of her throat, the intensity making her gag. Something sweet and metallic filled her mouth, crashing like waves into her gritted teeth. She opened her mouth, gagging and clutching her stomach. The pressure continued up her throat, burning one moment and then painfully cold the next.

It was unbearable and tears began filling her eyes. What was happening? She had never experienced anything like this in her long centuries. The only thing that had come close was when Hera had locked her voice away. Even that hadn't been this exquisitely, painfully, terrible. Yet, for all the pain, there was a joy, an ecstasy, building underneath it.

Her jaw ached from the pressure and it cracked painfully as something substantial filled her mouth. It cut off her air way, her fingers clawing at her throat, trying to force whatever it was out of her. Her vision blurred and black spots dotted everything. The pressure was slowly coming to an end; her energy rallying long enough to pull the item all the way out.

Exhausted, she fell over, her fingers gracing the water. With the item fully vacated she gasped for breath. The air had never tasted so sweet. She felt dizzy as she looked at the object she had purged.

It was small, smaller than it had felt in her throat. It was a small, gilded, birdcage with a tiny padlock. It was exquisite looking and she recognized the Greek letters for "Hera" on the lock. Her brain stumbled on Hera's name, trying to find an explanation and trying to tap down the hope building.

That's when she heard it, a voice emanating from the cage. It was melodious, singing and talking. It was a cacophony; all of her different thoughts, songs, stories and dreams going at once. Everything she had longed to say was spilling out of the cage.

The lock came undone and the door opened up, her voice flowing out. It was beautiful, standing three inches tall, golden and sparkling.

"Its time to speak, Echo." it said, before plunging into her throat and spreading out like honey. Her throat ached for only a moment before she fainted.

The sunlight dappled the ground around Echo. A leaf drifted down and landed on her face. When she opened her eyes, Apollo's chariot rested at its Zenith. She moved stiffly, wondering if everything had been a dream. She was afraid it was and couldn't bring herself to try her voice.

Maybe she would try tonight. If it had been a dream, she wouldn't be able to resist repeating. She would be compelled to echo, it was the most vicious part of the curse.

Tell Me Tales

"Tell me tales," she said, her cheeks flushed with the excitement and the wind's kiss. "Tell me about the land when it was young and fruitful."

But how does one describe the azure of the endless sky, dotted with puffs of white? How does one paint pictures of leafy green arms stretched up in ecstasy, ready to embrace the oceanic heavens? Where do I find the words to elucidate the myriad of blood nourished flowers, their petals like so many dancing princesses across the viridian ballroom of the earth?

She tugged at my sleeve, looking up at me with her, too wide, hazel eyes and I knew. Taking her hand, I led her up to the crest of the hill. Below us lay the chessboard of our reality, stretched as far as the eye could see. The wind swept past us, an invisible ocean, its voice a whisper.

"When the earth was new," I told her, my hand sweeping across the landscape as if I were a painter. "the Gods set about forging existence. They began with the fields and the prairies, dressing the earth in green. They adorned her with crowns of mountains, they christened her with an empyrean of stars, they gave her a voice as soft as silence."

"The earth was a goddess, created from the mist of nothingness and the musing of those more ancient than she. They pressed themselves into the flesh of her and grew as trees, reaching up, always reaching, as if to embrace her. The rivers sprang from her tears, the flowers from the spilled blood of the first peoples, clouds from her dreams."

"The moon stood to guard her and the sun stood to warm her. The jewels in her azure hair fell to the earth, gems to bless her birth, a dowry to those who would come after her."

"Who will come after the Earth, Momma?" she said, her small hand clasped in mine and her eyes roaming the rolling hills before us.

"Earth gives birth to earth, my love. Before this world there were others and many will be born after she ends."

Standing in silence, we gazed out across the emptiness, witnesses to the expanse of our existence. We watched the trees as they fell to the rhythm of axes. They cascaded to the forest floor like evergreen whales diving below the water. We watched as the torches set the grass to leaping red demons. Their destructive dance twisted and rippled across the fabric of the earth. Before we knew it, all that had been green and fragrant had been replaced by cold pavement and polluted air.

"Who will come after the Earth, Momma?"