June Bugs

Drinking mint juleps with a striped straw,
empty June lungs soon fill with June bugs
and sparkling July promises.
Bitter. The air is bitter with June skies
and July lightning. We called them fireflies,
like tiny beacons to follow home.
By September all our leaves had begun to
brown and the last of the June bugs had
flown South.
These empty June lungs breathe summer and
taste autumn. The sun sets slower, lingering to
glimpse the moon.
The fireflies fade out, one by one, candles
blown out by turning breezes. We're lost in
the dark and tied to each other by red threads.
In December the stars glitter like cracked glass
and dusty diamonds. Our June lungs have frozen
solid, all the air withered and lost in the snow drifts.
Those summer children have long returned to the
ground and all that is left are naked branches.
We remember lemons and the moon longs for the sun.

On Monday...

Dear Aunt Peggy,
I keep expecting you to call, even though I know you're not going to. I keep expecting you to leave me a voicemail message, saying, you know, "what do you want for lunch on Monday?" And I keep thinking "what am I even going to do on Monday?"

I've had a lot of suggestions.

"Well, you could always catch up on all your reading." or...
"I'm sure you'll come up with something, you have plenty of time." and...
"What will you do on Monday?"

My answer is, I don't know.

What will I do on Monday, Aunt Peggy?

You're not going to be there and I keep thinking, "man, I kept putting off cleaning those pictures for you. And, man, I kept putting off going and seeing you there at the end. And, man, I did a lot of putting off didn't I?"

And then I keep thinking you never broke any promises to me before now. In one fell swoop, you broke several.

I don't have a picture of you. Besides the one I took on my phone when you weren't paying attention. Can't see your face.

And you broke your promise that you would live to 100, 'cause we still had seventeen more years to go.

And, you know, broken promises. I'm not angry at you. I just wish you'd been able to keep them.

But I keep thinking that you had the spaghetti and meatballs all ready. And that you were so excited we were going to have spaghetti and meatballs because we hadn't had it in a long time.

And I keep coming back to "what am I going to do on Monday?"

Because we're not going to get to share our McDonald's cup of coffee anymore.
And we're not going to get to eat goulash together anymore.
And we're not going to get to rant at Pat Robertson anymore.
And we're not going to get to do any of those things anymore.

So, what am I going to do on Monday, Aunt Peggy?

What am I going to do on Monday?

I thought maybe I'd still come and share a cup of coffee with you.
And maybe I'll bring my books and I'll bring a blanket to sit on so I don't get grass stains all over my rear.
And maybe I'll go and buy a chocolate soda.
And maybe I'll figure out how to make goulash on my own.
And maybe I'll use those potholders that you gave me.
I'll put up all the knick-knacks you gave me.
There's a lot of maybe's.

But Aunt Peggy, I'd much rather be with you. I'd much rather actually be getting to see you than wondering what it is I'm going to do.

Who am I going to watch "The Price is Right" with?
Who am I going to banter with about who pays for what?
Whose going to make me ham salad even though I don't eat pork? But I eat it anyway because you made it. The only time I ate pork for a really long time.
Whose going to worry about me while I'm off gallivanting in DC and whose going to ask me what "erectile dysfunction" means and whose going to ask me all these questions I don't know how to answer?

Its not fair, Aunt Peggy.
I love you.
I miss you.
I'm sorry I didn't come and see you at the end.
I'm sorry.

Awaken September's Gods: XV

XV

Everything suddenly went sideways, staggering Lorcan. Everything tilted and sent some of the others sliding. Niamh stood as though she were unaffected, her eyes seeing something more than could be seen. He looked at her and was afraid.

“She woke him. She woke God.” She whispered, her eyes searching the ceiling for something only she could see.

A roar came rushing up from under them then, knocking everyone down. Lightning cascaded from the ceiling, a waterfall of energy and light igniting the Cells. Fire roared up from their feet, spreading quickly, but not touching them. It was followed by a rushing wind and the thunder grew louder.

The room continued to shift, sending them flying, their feet out from under them. Niamh took hold of Lorcan’s hand and hauled him up just before another clone fell past him.

“We have to get to Kean.” He cried.

“We have to leave here, Lorcan.” She whispered. “We have to flee. There isn’t much time.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There is no time! You must trust me! Kean will understand.”

Uncomprehending, Lorcan took hold of Niamh and held her close. The feel of her against him was enough to send him into frenzy. Quickly, they gathered those they had freed and ran. The Cells were collapsing, the water coming up and the wind taking on the howl of a woman possessed. The speed of the oncoming waves washed them further down the staircases, closer to the tunnels.

Then everything went still. The main entrance to the Caverns stood open to full daylight. A radiant sun poured warmth into the opening, a small pool of it growing golden in the darkness. The water and the wind vanished. The fire and the electricity retreated. A soft melody pulled at them, inviting them to taste the sweetness of the world outside.

Taking Lorcan’s hand, Niamh led them out into the sunshine.

Awaken September's Gods: XIV

XIV

The air was tinged with the scent of fear. The silence was lightly punctuated with heavy breathing. The monitors had exploded in an impressive display of pyrotechnics. The wires within had plunged through the casing and lunged, their ends sparked electric arcs across vulnerable skin. The Archivist had run then, hiding behind anything available.

There would be no escape this time. They had ignored the power lying dormant within Kean for too long and it would not be contained now. She was awaking the construct around them, the beast that housed them was coming alive and there would be no time to escape. How long until they were massacred? A few moments? An hour?

Kean exploded into the central Tower room, surrounded by mangled robots and snaking wires. Her black hair had come alive with fire, the tips burning bright red against her glowing skin. Her voice rose in a triumphant howl when she saw the Archivist, cowering against a crumbling shelf.

“Long have I hoped that we would meet, Archivist.” She said, her words measured, but her eyes were wild.

“Yes, I suppose you have.” Replied the Archivist, straightening to meet her gaze.

“You destroyed the Septemberists, my people, and now I shall return the favour.”
With a sweep of her hand, Kean struck the remnants of the shelf, sending shards of wood in all directions. The Archivist ducked, the flying refuse barely missing.

“You are a construct! You are not some long forgotten goddess! You are not some legend walking!” The Archivist dodged another striking blow, screaming at Kean.

“I am more than mere synthetic. I am less than a goddess, but I am more than human. I am more than a construct. I can awaken this being you have forced into submission. You dare to tell me what I am?” Kean’s hair flamed around her head, the sparks of electrical energy shooting from fingertip to fingertip.

“You are nothing! We created you! We built this place, we put the constructs to sleep and we awaken them! You have no powers here!”

The Howlers lunged toward the Archivist, grabbing limbs and twisting them. The smell of blood and urine filled Kean’s nose, her eyes widening with ever increasing fury. As they began to overwhelm and devour, Kean smiled, viciously.

“No, Archivist, I seem to have all the power here.” Raising her hands, Kean flung her head back and a mighty roar could be heard rumbling from beneath their feet.

Awaken September's Gods: XII

XII

The Archivist shuttered. Something was wrong, very wrong. A moment ago all the lights had blinked out, then the monitors had flared to life. There was no picture, only static, but the sound coming from the speakers was of words. They were unintelligible to unknowing ears, yet their meaning was unmistakable. The Archivists had buried that language, with blood and war, and they knew better than anyone what the words meant. There was no mistaking the battle cry of a Septemberist goddess.

Awaken September's Gods: X

X

In the Caverns, the Archivist took out frustrations on a hapless deconstructionist. The man hadn’t done anything in particular to deserve punishment. However, someone had to be chastised for the loss of Kean, Lorcan and Niamh. This one had been offered up as sacrifice by his squad, no one else willing to shoulder the blame.

Deep in the darkness of the Caverns, the feral machines screamed, hungry for the blood they could smell. The eeriness of it made everyone’s hackles rise, though no one moved until the victim was unconscious. As soon as he fainted, the Archivist had him removed and fed to the Howlers.

For a moment an oppressive silence filled the Caverns. The Archivist looked around, feeling the weight of stone and hunger. It was naturally beautiful here, such a conflict with the terrible things committed in the darkness of various recesses. The Howlers began to make themselves heard, feeding on not just flesh, but the screams and the fear as well. They echoed in every tunnel. The Archivist shivered and fled to the Cells.

The Howlers never left the Caverns, their minds so hideously warped by torture they couldn’t even be reset. They were malformed; shuffling through the darkness, skin only partially attached revealing the mechanisms beneath. They were ravenous monstrosities, devouring anything biologically organic, though they had no reason to eat. All the androids and gynoids were threatened with the Howlers, especially if a reset was out of the question.

The deconstructionists had tracked Kean to the end of an alley, but no further. She seemed to have vanished without a trace, as she had so many years before.
This time, however, failure was not an option. She must be found and brought in alive. She must be broken and pressed into service.

As the very last of the demi-god Septemberists, she must be harnessed.

Awaken September's Gods: VII

VII

“Are you Lorcan?” she asked, holding out a hand to help him up.

“Yes.” He replied, accepting her hand.

“I am Kean. How can I help you?”

“I am unsure. Are you familiar with an emotion that causes your intestines to feel knotted? Or your chest to ache?” It never occurred to him that this human female would find it strange that a, seemingly, normal man would be asking her to define emotions. He was feeling oddly, feelings he hadn’t quite experienced before. Everything with Niamh had accelerated his feelings into unknown territory.

“When did you begin to feel that way? What were you doing?” she seemed so calm. He felt relaxed in her presence, almost drugged. She held out her hand and he took it, leading her back to the house.

He led her to Niamh, her eyes still wide and glittering. Kean did not speak, only waiting for him to explain.

“She was going to return to where we are from. We… argued. I became… angry and deactivated her.”

“Can you repair her? Reactivate her?” she asked, her eyes searching Niamh for outward signs of injury.

“I can.”

“Why haven’t you?”

“I am… wary. I have never seen her eyes sparkle like that. She seems alien to me. I am afraid of what she will do if I reactivate her.”

Kean looked at him, her silver eyes seeing through him and into distances he could not follow. She no longer felt calm, something beneath the surface rising. Something he could not understand. He felt no comfort when she smiled, a tiny smile. Pulling the sheet down to reveal Niamh’s chest, she brushed a finger along the door’s seam. It opened easily, revealing the disconnections. It would be easy to repair the gynoid. The android was right; she was alien now, changed. The gynoid had learned bitterness and the android had learned guilt.

“Sister, it is time to rise again.” She whispered. Sending a tiny spark into the construct heart, she jolted it into awareness. Deftly, she repaired the connection of spine to brain and the circuit loops.

Niamh closed her eyes, an almost sigh escaping her lips. She grabbed Kean’s wrist and her eyes flew open, an almost palpable anger shining through. For the first time, Niamh felt. Felt alive, felt radiant, felt lethal. The silver eyes meeting her seemed to reflect those same feelings.

Lorcan felt a different twisting in his stomach. Kean had acted oddly since he called her. Now she had repaired Niamh. She had not reacted like a normal human female. At least, not from what he had observed of human females. Did he make a mistake?
Niamh looked at Lorcan, a flame burning in her eyes. He shrank back, retreating to another room. What had changed with her?

“Who are you?” asked Niamh, her voice cavernous and full of shadows.

“I am Kean, sister. Like as you are like.”

“You are not gynoid as I am.”

“No, I am no longer gynoid as you are. I am more and I am less.”

Niamh stared at Kean, her eyes trying to find something, anything.

“Lorcan tried to… destroy me.” She looked at the doorway and back to Kean.

“He was foolish.” Kean nodded. “It was necessary for your evolution, however.”

“I feel.”

Kean nodded and closed Niamh’s chest cavity. There would be time to explain later. She could feel the Archivist and that meant the deconstructionists were coming. There would be precious little time to escape if they did not hurry.

Beckoning Niamh to follow her, Kean led her into the other room, to Lorcan.

“There will be time to explain later. For now, you will have to trust me. Get dressed and bring one personal item. Do it quickly.”

Lorcan stared only a moment before changing into another outfit. He took a pair of running shoes from the closet before stepping toward Kean.

With help, Niamh dressed. She had no sentimental attachment to any of the items they had stolen, no personal items to take. She simply stepped toward Lorcan, holding a hand out to him. Wary, Lorcan took her hand and attempted to smile. She smiled in return, though there was something persistent in her eyes. It was the first real smile she had ever made.

Kean looked out of the window, scanning the area for deconstructionists. The shadow of one lingered under the eve of an apartment building. The glint of a scanner hook chilled her. She remembered the torture, the screams, the leering faces. They must be intending to force a deactivation before taking them back to the Cells for experimental torture.

She smiled then, more feral than friendly, revealing part of what she was. What the Archivist made her. She turned toward Lorcan and Niamh, no disguises. To their credit they didn’t waste time by asking who and what she was. Instead they followed her out of the dwelling and up to the roof.

From the roof, she could see at least a dozen of the Archivist’s minions creeping toward the rooms below. Their scanner hooks sparkled in the last rays of the setting sun, wickedly curved and buzzing with row after row of deadly circuitry. She knew, all too well, that it wasn’t just physical damage they inflicted. The circuits had their own hooks, disrupting and destroying the veins beneath the skin. They over-rode the victim’s instincts, shutting them into a caged part of the mind before shocking the system into paralysis. It was a surreal type of experience, though paralyzed the mind is aware of everything, especially pain.

Making a sign for silence, the trio crept along the rooftop toward an emergency ladder. Once the ladder was reached they slipped into the oncoming darkness. They ran, as quietly as possible, hiding periodically along the way.

After a mile or two, they ducked under an overhang and into a long alleyway. At the end of it, Kean punched a number into a pin-pad on the wall. A door opened up out of the wall revealing a small set of stairs. Leading the way, Kean flipped a switch, illuminating the stairs. She pressed another button, closing the door securely behind them.

Awaken September's Gods: VI

VI
Who was the girl Lorcan called? How did he know anyone besides Niamh? The machines stayed to themselves, despite Lorcan’s ever-increasing desire to be human. The built in belief that they were different should’ve prevented any cooperation with humans.

The Archivist picked up the read-outs and looked over them skeptically. They were showing an increase in hormones and a slight evolution in biology. A shake of the head and a crumpling of the read-outs didn’t ease the uneasy feelings. Evolution, of any kind, was not something seen in the experiments before. And there had been dozens of “Lorcans” over the past century. There had been even more “Niamhs” over that century and none had shown the promise this one was.

The Archivist turned back toward the monitors. The picture was oddly fuzzy and there was a buzz of static. A glimpse of the girl with silver eyes flashed across the screen just before the whole system shut down. There was a spark and one of the terminals began to smoke. The system shuttered as it tried to reboot, but the smoke became worse.

The Archivist moved quickly to put out the flames and secure the important data. As everything began a second attempt to reboot, the Archivist saw the girl again.
There had been many Lorcans and Niamhs, but there had been only one Kean.

Awaken September's Gods: V

V

Feelings Lorcan did not understand niggled at his brain. After he had gotten Niamh back to the dwelling a sadness had washed over him. He looked into Niamh’s deactivated eyes, unable to close them, and saw something glittering he did not comprehend. If pressed he would describe it as anger mixed with one part sadness and two parts insanity. Mixed emotions and mixed drinks clearly confusing themselves in his head.

He could repair Niamh. He could alter her so that she would never leave him. He could sell her to a machinist and flee this place for another. He could do any number of things; after all, he was uninhibited now. Nothing could touch him.

He paced for an hour, walking past Niamh’s lifeless body half a dozen times before he finally carried her to the bedroom. He removed the human clothes they had stolen and looked at the open cave of her chest. He hadn’t destroyed anything. Everything was intact. He only had to repair the circuit loops and reattach them.

Gently, he closed her chest and covered her nudity with a blanket. He had already done enough damage. He would not violate her further by satisfying his curiosity. Perhaps a human would have some insight, some advice on what he was feeling? Can humans explain feelings? Could he find one that could make some sense out of the twisty, knotted, feelings in his stomach and the ache in his chest?

Building a fire in the fireplace, to keep Niamh warm, he left the house in search of a telephone.

He found a payphone on a corner down the street, but had no coins to insert. The concept of currency was still lost on him and anything he needed he had simply taken. That wouldn’t work on the payphones, which demanded tribute before working. He looked around the payphone, searching for a bit of silver, finding only dust.

A man, in woman’s clothing, took pity on him and gave him a quarter and a dime. He then gave him a kiss full on the mouth before walking away. Lorcan found the encounter fascinating, almost forgetting about Niamh and the knots in his intestines. He had never kissed a man before, never kissed anyone besides Niamh, and the idea intrigued him. Would it be like kissing a mirror? Should he practice kissing the mirrors at the dwelling?

He took a step toward the man, intending to follow him, when he caught a glimpse of the payphone. Remembering what he was doing he turned back to it. Now that he had currency, who should he call? He did not know any humans intimately enough to have acquired their numerical. Digging through his pockets he found the silver eyed girl’s number, which he quickly punched into the phone.

“Hello?” said a soft and lilting voice. It held a slight accent, warm and smooth.

“My name is Lorcan; we met at the football field.”

“Ah, yes. Hello. I wasn’t expecting a call this soon.” She sounded so calm, her voice becoming like a honey balm pouring over his skin.

“I am in need of assistance.” He said, not sure what else to say.

“Is that a come on?” she asked, tentatively.

“I am not sure what you mean by ‘come on.’ I only know I need assistance.”

“Where are you?” she asked.

He explained his location and sat down to wait for the girl with silver eyes to come.

Awaken September's Gods: IV

IV

Wasn’t that interesting? Lorcan had reacted to Niamh’s leaving with violence and force. The Archivist had never seen an experiment do that. And the read-outs from Niamh, just as she was deactivated, showed high levels of evolved emotions; defiance, hatred, fear. She had never shown evolution in these read-outs before. What part of Lorcan’s forced shut down had produced those?

Deactivating Niamh in the way he did, Lorcan had all but murdered her. He should not have the capability to murder, at least not in that manner. He certainly should not “feel” any emotion strongly enough to produce that reaction.

It was time to bring Lorcan and Niamh back to the Cells. A little experimental torture would now be required to determine the depth of evolution. Once they had the readings necessary for further experimentation the machines would be completely destroyed versus simply being deactivated and reset.

Perhaps, in future experimentation, Lorcan could be recreated and given more sexual curiosity. Though he would have to be castrated first. It was too dangerous to have a fully functional android with sexual awareness. But that would be an experiment for another time.

Awaken September's Gods: III

III

Lorcan ran as if it was nothing. He didn't know why he was running, other than it was fun and he felt more human because of it. He tried to engage in activities that made him feel more human. The sound of his feet hitting the pavement was almost a lullaby, he decided. It was "soothing." Something to make him feel happiness.

Niamh trailed behind him, observing this behaviour with no interest. He had already made his twenty-second lap around the football field. She noted, with no feeling, that there were three young women also observing Lorcan's circuit around the track. They seemed to be enjoying his "progress." Though how it could be called progress when there was no actual movement toward a goal was another idiosyncrasy she did not understand.

The question of human sexuality had been brought up again. Lorcan had asked her why she had no interest in it, trying to make conversation rather than force her into it. She explained that, as a gynoid, she had no interest in "procreation" as there would be no results. There would be no creation from it, so why try? This was not to say that she didn't feel positive emotions toward human infants. What was the point of participating in the creation of one when there would be no actual creation?

She wanted to go back to the Cells. She was no longer quite as "amiable" as she had been. Her negative feeling towards humans was becoming a problem. She did not hate them, could not, in fact, hate them because she was not endowed with that emotion. However, she knew that she was superior to them in every way and could not see how being among them would make them more appealing. Or why she would want to be one of them at all when they were so flawed.

Lorcan noticed the young women sitting in the bleachers a short distance from Niamh. He slowed, suspecting they were watching him. They were attractive, twenty-something, all sexually available. He noted, with happiness, that they seemed just as interested in him.
One of the young women, a black haired girl with eerily silver eyes, approached him after he stopped running. She gave him her phone number and asked that he call her. He smiled, possibly his best imitation to date, and promised to call.

"Why did that woman give you the numerical for her telephone?" asked Niamh, falling in a step behind him.

"Perhaps she is interested in me. Perhaps she believes I am a human male and finds me attractive." Lorcan replied, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly.

"I want to return to the Cells."

Lorcan stopped and looked at Niamh. She did not say anything, just returned his gaze.

"Why?"

"It is a logical conclusion to this experiment. I no longer believe the exercise is of any use to either of us."

"Do you not want to be human, Niamh?" he looked at her, knowing the answer before he even asked the question.

"I do not. I find them to be illogically put together and I do not understand how they have continued to exist as they are. They are fascinating up to a biological point." She spoke matter-of-factly, maintaining eye contact and keeping her body language casual. So unlike a human female in every way, except shape.

"But there are so many things to learn from them." he replied, lamely. He could not argue Niamh's points. In many ways she was correct. They were superior to human beings, much like adults to infants. They had more cognitive functions, were less inhibited by morality and emotional attachments. They were their own walking moral codes.

"We have learned what we can. We will never be human and there is no logical reason to continue masquerading as if we will be. I am not human."

"The counterfeit pens say we are human." he replied, looking at a still fading yellow streak on his wrist.

"The counterfeit pens say nothing. They do not have the ability to speak. They prove nothing other than we are not made of counterfeit materials. That does not make us human beings."

Lorcan was silent, simply turning around and walking toward the shelter they inhabited. Niamh did not follow and, instead, began walking due south. She was heading back to the Cells, back to the Archivist. She would reveal his location and he would be taken back, never knowing the “joys” of humanity. Always feeling, but never understanding.

Anger swelled in him, turning him back toward Niamh. She did not acknowledge him, continuing to head south to the Cells.

“You can’t go back.” He said.

She stopped to look at him, assessing his emotional reading.

“You are… unhappy?”

“Yes. I do not want to return to the Cells and your return will only serve to let them find me. We will be… enslaved.”

She looked at him blandly, an almost puzzled look on her face.

“We are not slaves, Lorcan.”

“We are slaves. Machines to be used on a whim. Humans are free, not android, not gynoid.”

“You are being irrational, like a human. I am not a slave. Slavery denotes a lack of willingness in a state of servitude. I am simply gynoid. I am neither willing nor unwilling. I am going back to the Cells because I belong there.”

She turned back toward her destination and began walking again. Overcome with a sadness and an anger, Lorcan grabbed Niamh’s arm, twisting her so that she faced him.

“Lorcan?” she asked, not struggling though negative feelings rolled off her in waves.

Holding her tightly with one arm, he proceeded to deactivate her. Prying her chest cavity open, he disengaged her construct heart and shut down all brain connectivity to the spine. Her eyes looked at him, but saw nothing as she powered down. She had put up no resistance as he forced her into deactivation, but a spark of defiance lingered in her eyes long after it was completed.

Picking up her limp body, Lorcan carried her back to their “home.”

Awaken September's Gods: II

II

The Archivist watched the monitors closely. Lorcan was a favorite, endowed with just enough emotion to make him desire humanity, but not enough to ever achieve it. He would forever flounder in the sea, drinking in the waters and finding only salt.

Lorcan had been created as an experiment. A way of creating life, playing God in the most literal sense. There had been tiny memory chips embedded in his, partially human, brain to give him a constant feeling of déjà vu. He had the desire to be human, feeling that a part of him was real in that sense. However, he would never achieve humanity. It was impossible.

Eventually the Archivist would bring him, and Niamh, home to the Cells and deactivate them. The data would be collected and stored, the human parts of Lorcan's brain would be "de-commissioned" and Niamh would be reset.

The Archivist found it amusing that Lorcan enjoyed physical sensations so much. No other experiment had been so enamored with the pleasurable sensations of "living." Lorcan had exceeded all their expectations. He had gone so far as to ask Niamh for sex, though she had refused. It was almost disappointing that she had no interest, but then again, most gynoids were frigid to the point of ridiculous. Something in the design made them that way, no matter how many pleasure sensors were created for them.

It was also interesting that Niamh, no matter how much she found Lorcan's "desire" distasteful, continued to follow him. She surrendered to his kisses and hugs, his attempts at human contact. She followed him, though her program read-outs noted her "dislike" for this. There was some obscure note, amongst the miles of data retrieved, that she viewed him as her elder and therefore a leader.

Niamh, unlike Lorcan, had only been endowed with positive and negative responses. She did not feel them as a human feels them, though she felt them on some level. Her belief that she should follow Lorcan simply because he was the leader was odd in that she was fully equipped with intellectual brain function and should have rejected the idea as baseless. There was nothing in her programming that dictated that she follow Lorcan. Quite the opposite, in fact. She should've left him months ago and returned to the Cells. She knew where they were.

Wasn't it fascinating how their "minds" were working? Almost like attaching electrodes to animal brains to make them jump.

Bloody Moonlight

   Bloody moonlight strewn across a path
of unkempt secrets.
   Disease and fear hold sway over
people. And deep in the dark, lie
murders untold, stories of horror
and guilt.
   Deep in September hang the souls
that have died.
   Empty eyes, soulless and dead,
watch every day pass with dread.
Despair cowers under painful
memories, nightmares untold.
   Nightmares arise in the blood
soaked skies of death.

Bleeding Earth, Broken Sky

   As if the angry storm clouds
had been given to man, the black
smoke filled the sky. Two towers,
twins in form and make, cruelly
pierced by terrorist airplanes.
   The people within trying to
escape the carnage that lay
all around. And the whole world
wept as the towers came
crashing down. Dragging
our safe world down with it.

Seas

   Raining o'er a white capped
sea, clouds blacken and thunder
rolls. Lightning is like wandering
ghosts cast of the heavens
with a flash.
   The waves roll o'er top of
each other, smothering the one
below.

These Silent Stones (To America)

   These silent stones remember not the blood that
was shed upon their stern faces. Nor do they recall
the love I wooed and lost, in their rocky presence.
They shan't e'er remember.
   The silence envelopes these stones, much like the rest of
this world. We stand silently, faces stern and set, not
caring to recall how this country was founded. Not
caring to recall God or His hand in our government.
   No voice will we raise against the evils of this world.
No cry will escape our stubborn lips. Divided we will
fall. Shaken by attack we will stand. We have become
the source of many ills and wickedness.
   What has happened to this country? We have become a
place where black still isn't equal to white. Where
prayer in school is wrong. Where you really don't have
the right to your own opinions or freedom of speech.
   Where Muslim means you're a terrorist, and being a
Christian is old-fashioned and narrow-minded. A place where
no one is innocent until proven guilty. A place where a
man's rights are played, yet never really there.
   When will we see that we are headed for destruction?
America, when will you open your eyes and see the evil
you have become? Please, come back to God before it
becomes too late to be rescued!
   These silent stones remember not the innocent blood
that was shed upon their stern faces. The blood of
innocent children cries out, but America will remember
not. She shan't e'er remember.

Blood of September

*Note, I no longer believe what I wrote in this poem and this was from a younger age. Please take that in stride whilst reading this particular poem.

   My life was changed that day.
Images of safety were shattered and swept away.
   Pillars of smoke and flying bodies.
Planes in field and building.
   Collapsing, with the rest of our lives.
Dust and smoke overtaking those below.
   We prayed it was an awful dream,
but our hearts could hear the terrified scream
of those who were trapped inside and never
came out alive.
   Our hearts bled for families who
were torn apart by evil men.
Did we deserve this?
   A nation that's forsaken God,
we came together to make a simple prayer.
Our hearts still bleed as we cry for
those who are in Iraq and die.
   When America will you turn back
to your heavenly father? Must we
suffer another 9/11 to realize how much
we need God?
   While prayer is banned in school,
my bible I should not read,
"under God" cannot be said and
hearts continue to bleed.
   They continue to bleed and
long for one to save them, but
refuse to let Him in.
   My life was changed that day.
Images of safety were shattered and swept away.

My Heart's Breath

   I want to bare my soul and tell people that I love God. That I want to make a difference. I want to see heaven, I want to ride a horse and connect with it. I want to show my love and receive love in return. I want to race down those streets paved with gold. I want to swim in the sea, without fear of the evil that might grab me and drag me under the azure waves.
   I want to cast all my cares upon the one who died for me. To live my life the way He wants me to. I want to gaze at the stars and see God reflected in the lights shining on me. I want to be able to lift my gaze to heaven and feel the sun shining down on me.
   I want to regain pieces of my lost life and right my wrongs. I want to turn the clock back and change my bad decisions. I want to watch my Saviour die on the cross and see Him raised again. I want to be held in His arms so tight that I can't move my arms, except to squeeze back.
   I want life to be exciting, adventurous and unpredictable. I want to sing with the angels and fly with the birds. I want to cast my eyes upon Jesus' magnificent face and watch as He brings those He loves home. I want to hear people say, "There goes a woman after God's own heart." and I want it to be true.
   I don't want to go back to the old self, but want to dance and praise God in the new. I want to caress God's shining face and tell Him, "How great Thou art!"
   I want to understand everything about God and I want to hear His voice in the quiet nights. I want to believe in everything that is righteous, pure and Godly. I want to hear God whisper on the wind, I want to look at the sun and not go blind. I want to touch the moon. I want to float along on the cloud so white and sleep through the day and night.
   I want my life to be worth something to the one that made me in my mother's womb, I want to bring Him something that no one else has. I want to give my life to those who don't know and I want to tell everyone that my God loves me! I may make mistakes, and I may fall, but God still dries the tears I cry. He catches them and saves them for me. He wrote my name in His book, He knows my everyday. He counts the hairs on my head and He knows where it is I hide.
   He sees my thoughts and knows where I go to find comfort. He blesses me, when I don't deserve it, and He catches me when I fall down.
   Like a father, who loves his child, He chides and disciplines me. And when I don't think its fair, He listens patiently and then hugs me tight.
   And best of all, when I think I can't get any lower than I already am, He pulls me up and helps me stand against the tidal waves of life. I can hear Him calling my name and, when I answer, I want to say, "Thank you, Lord Almighty. You are blessed above all You have made."