Zeroed into the Past

December 8, 2011

Bremer Acosta

 

I

 

When I was in pre-school, a neighborhood girl used to chase me around and kiss me on the lips. She wanted to marry me, but I didn’t like her, so I threw a juice box at her head. Not too much has changed.

 

 

II

Chush. Chush. Ksssshh! Doors hiss open.

The yellow school bus rolls through the neighborhood, eating little boys and girls.

Little boys and girls, gripping their mommy’s hands, lean backwards from book-bags.

Book-bags sag on tiny shoulders, filled to the brim with math and science hard-backs.

A slow meandering turtle dips his head into a murky pond, chewing on mud.

Across the red stop sign, Billy flicks his booger into the grass.

His mom mumbles manners to him. He cocks his head sideways, watching the turtle.

Chush. Chush. Ksssshh! Doors hiss open.

 

 

III 

Sugar-ridden children cheer for the most expensive board games in the commercials. Catchy jingles and high-fives all around. Move the purple piece two spaces. Roll the die. Try again. Look at what fun we are having, kids!

 

If only I could gather around the dinner table every Wednesday night for a chance at creaming pa in the grand pursuit of fake money and fake buildings and fake identities. In every American household, we wear matching wool sweaters and jabber in ‘50s lingo and pat each other on the rump after a long day of sniffing sawdust at the mill.

 

In the endless nights of no troubles, we sit round this delusion of ours, playing out a watered-down version of Leave It to Beaver. Except instead of the black-and-white TV sitcom heaven, we’re chain-smoking cigarettes and sticking to the plastic on the living room couch. When we finish, we dig our sporks into frozen Salisbury steaks, suck on frosted peas, and watch re-runs of I Love Lucy, before calling it a night.

 

 

IV

 

“Rocko’s Modern Life! Rocko’s Modern Life…” blurts from the television set into my living room. With a flicker of the remote, my dad changes the station to static, before finding a news program. Two important-looking heads drone on, in monotonous fashion, about the verdict of the OJ trial.

 

My dad’s relaxing in his brown recliner, lecturing me about cartoons being only for kids. His drawing pad rests on his hairy belly. He’s tracing the features of one of the men, outlining the fat square head, shading the nose, sketching the narrowness of the eyes.

 

I’m sitting on the floor, still angry at him for interrupting my show, thinking that he doesn’t understand me. The aroma of ham, mashed potatoes and corn wavers in from the next room.

 

My mother says, “It’s time to eat.”

 

 

 

V

 

I tighten a few chairs around the stairs as a sturdy barrier, throwing a blanket over the top to avoid airstrikes. I’m making a fort. Neither evildoer nor pirate can infiltrate my air-tight base, if they want to keep their spleen. Beware ye who enter, for I have a bucket of water grenades that will stain cloth and skin. Guarding my domain is a vicious canine, breathing heavily and flapping her tongue. She must be hungry – for blood! I’ll teach this ravenous beast to chew on the flesh of intruders like she does to her rubber newspapers. No ninja or robot or older brother will penetrate what I have designed – at least not without a good fight.

 

 

VI

 

Hovering above retro-sleek floors, I glide through the arcade doors, kicking forward with Nike Shoes on, listening to the bleeping and blooping, the high-tech Galaga spaceships blasting alien forces, kids wearing backward hats and shooting hoops, and grinding on neon half-pipes…

 

At the pool hall, I’m watching the striped balls click and clack into their brown leather holes. The hustler slants his body over the table and strikes with calculated precision, as the balls roll on the velvety green surface. He has bushy white hair and sunglasses, a wet cigar in his mouth. Dead smoke spreads underneath a ceiling lamp. The veteran collects his cash, counting briefly before snapping a gold clip around the president’s picture.

 

 

VII

 

I burn across the asphalt on my bicycle, squealing with tire-tread, flying over the handlebars on the pavement, bloodying the palms of my hands. Wood chips imprint on loose skin, stinking of mud and manure. The stinging intensifies…. Blood trickles crimson down the white pants I got for Christmas… curdling and drying and mixing with other bacterium… a red Jackson Pollock masterpiece on the ground… the remnant of an adventure, sticky and warm for others to see, as the brain dizzies, he notices a wound on the forehead and opens crusty eyes after  a millennium of dreaming in lands far in the subconscious, now awakening in this cruel reality… still unsure of where he is or who he is… detached in the fog… recollecting what happened a few minutes or days before… to him or somebody else…

 

 

VIII

 

Radio control cars and transistors. Radio Flyer. Red Wagons sailing over mountains. Magic Greek shoes. Orthopedic Zeus. Misanthropic, gynecologists with plastic tools, crouch over a toy chest to inspect the monkey with clanging symbols.

 

Wheelbarrows should be used more. Chinese fortune cookies make Confucius sad. I. Egotistical ramblings from a weary-eyed fool, am I you, drunken mischief. Smashed Viking helmets should be a fashion style but only in the mid-west. Bronze shields are all the rage nowadays.

 

Carnivores in nightclubs need developments of bubbling ooze for their patients to keep them in a stunned grin. Satanic rituals. What happened to Waldo? I miss that snake-eyed son of a bitch. Demented men drape themselves in the colors of barber shop poles. The word “queasy” looks like a gallivanting troll. Maybe French cuisine.

 

Thor and Zeus duel it out. Tonight on the Conan O’ Brien show, your late night guest, Thor! I’ve got a lot of things to say about that lightening throwing cannibal.

 

Purple Watermelon. The new hip drug. Huff a slice of the ultra-violet sensation, man. Just like DMT but with more seeds. Norm Macdonald had his own show? Where is he?

 

Cancelled like the others. Cancelled on-air frequencies to my ears. These vibrations can’t be sensed visually. Only felt in the eardrums of the bored, of the hopeless, of the fallen workers, locked in mines. Pick-axes and coughs of coal. Dark drops drip.

 

Dead – feels like being unborn, stuck in emptiness, black. What is that? How can we know? What is what we know? Do these sentences make a fleeting impression on the lobes? Why must sense be what matters? How fortunate am I to interpret these ugly matters.

 

Ignore the rest. What is the rest? I forgot. Dead news. Static. Fading blips on the radar screen. Old leathery black beards smoking hickory pipes in front of their grand kids. In winds, they soon mix with the dust of the days. Mixed into silvery graves in the court yard. Weather ridden, cracked. Rose pedals float in their silence.

 

 

IV

 

Plastic relics with frozen faces, clutching grenades and knives, crouch inside their Lincoln log forts. They aim high-powered rifles. Their medic screams into a radio for reinforcements. Crayon smears on a soldier’s uniform. The helmeted commander waves in his troops, unaware of the incoming barrage of fire.

 

Study Indian chiefs, wearing red and yellow headdresses, sit bravely on wild ponies. They destine forward on imaginary plains. A child, with a crimson headband and a rusted tomahawk, huddles over a fireplace. Crushed spiders stink of kerosene inside the teepees.

 

Blue colonial figurines, holding tri-cornered hats, mix into a plastic bin with Ninja Turtles.

 

The turtles, green and ferocious fighters, seem to have lost their floppy swords and Sais. Raphael spins on his shell, flexing green veins on the hardwood floor. White plastic nubs stick from his leg holes. Maybe the mud that encrusted inside his body, from the time I forgot to bring him inside the house, made him the scowling, rage-filled, amputee he is today.

 

I rummage through the graveyard of my youth. Their tombstones surround me.

 

Have I forgotten these precious toys, these dusty artifacts? Are they the faded webs, the severed nerve connections, of my youth? They used to mean something to me, but now, they’re not needed. They simply aren’t important anymore. What can I learn from them?

 

I would feel weird to grab my old toys and make gun noises from my lips like I once did, spurting out: “perrr! Boom! Pew! Perrrshh!” But then again, why should I care? Have I gotten so old and dense and serious that I can’t enjoy what I once liked?

 

I’d like to battle a soggy Robocop against a purple cloaked Skeletor.

 

That ancient skeleton still has the malicious gleam that I once loved. In the stores, I begged my mom for enough cash for the new Skeletor, equipped with a wooden staff and lever that made his arm move forward. If only I could convince my mom to buy me what a kid my age most needs, with bribes of chores and an eventual dragging of sneakers. If she didn’t budge, I’d slip into a 5 year-old existential depression, asking questions, like:

 

“What is the purpose of all this?”

 

“Why do I have to do that?”

 

I remember once, a lanky neighborhood boy came inside my house to see my toys. His name was Scott. He had an ingrown toenail. He taught me how to melt yellow-skinned knights and green-skinned army rangers into pools of dripping plastic.

 

These warriors put up a strong fight but none of them could match the ingenuity of lighters and spray paint. Black smoke drenched the garage, toxins rose in the air, and I hid the evidence, by digging a hole in the backyard. The neighborhood boy didn’t want to make rubble out of his own toys, but he didn’t mind shooting my Legos into oblivion with a plastic BB gun. The pellets are still lodged in the walls.

 

Did Scott really understand what these toys meant to me?

 

What if I told him about my love affair with GI-Joe? Did he know about the Bart Simpson doll that said, “Don’t have a cow, maaaan” when I pulled his string? Or would his sadistic eyes still twinkle as he turned my cowboys into mush?

At one time, I did have a sacred bond with my playthings.

 

I constructed elaborate universes with my toys. Red raptors roamed the jungles of my room.  Wooden desktops and lamps were dangerous mountains to climb. Drawers, bookshelves and beds seemed more like black-holes, cliffs and caves.

 

 

No toy dared to leave my house, let alone, the outside of my room, into the world of light-up sneakers, fleshy giants and venomous mosquitoes. Even if they explored the grassy terrain of my backyard, armed to battle the monstrous fire-ants and razor-fanged bugs, most would not come back alive. And those who did come back weren’t the same again.

 

The toys had varying hierarchies of power.

 

There were general troops, bosses of troops, warlords, bandits, rogues, supreme leaders and so on. Each faction warred or corresponded with each other but ultimately wanted complete control of the bedroom, and eventually, the house.

 

They had real personalities and lives, and I played with them like the detached observer of my imagination, manipulating the world as it progressed. I flowed without any true end game in mind, watching the scenes, as if I wasn’t in control.

 

Now, at the age of 23, scrambling for toys in the pink clouds of my attic, with condensation accumulating on the walls, and a light bulb wavering, I learn what has become of my plastic brethren.

 

The unscrewed cranium of a Frankenstein, drilled breast-bone of a WWF superstar, dog-chewed remains of a micromachine ambulance: these are the memories of my childhood.

 

They are who I once was, what conditioned me to be what I am now, and I must not forget what I felt when I saw them all again.

 

I’ve made mistakes.

 

Toys have been lost, discarded, battered, broken, smashed, both on purpose and through neglect. Would a kid think to conserve his playthings in pristine packages under the ultra-cold temperatures of a built in freezer? Would he lightly touch his 99 cent action-figures, scared of a scratch? Would he buy a Super Soaker and keep the high-powered gun in the wrapping? No – That kid would play.

 

If he didn’t play and imagine and create and wonder, what would he be?

 

The toys aren’t what made the kid; it’s that curiosity, that experimentation that the kid intuitively had. Most adults forget how to think like a child.

 

Decades of educational and political and social abuse have turned us into droopy-eyed, hunchbacks, who suckle the tit of corporate deities and argue with each other over who should win on American Idol. We’ve become tired machinery, destined through crowds with polished leather shoes, brown briefcases, bland ties, designer sunglasses, gold watches and suffocating cologne.

 

These are our toys. Preconceived images. Titles and awards. And we spend our lives showing them off to others or hogging them for ourselves. But when I remember myself as a kid, I just did. I only was.

 

 

V

 

A toy seems to be an object, matter, an arrangement of molecules. We are aquatinted with the toy through sensory data: how the toy feels when we touch its surface, what the toy looks like, from its colors and shadows, how the toy tastes, if we lick it. These are immediate experiences, based on sensory data. And we interpret the properties of a toy without realizing in many cases.

 

We make judgments about the meaning of our objects. When a four-year-old sleeps with a stuffed rabbit, he forms meaning about that rabbit. When a disgruntled dad tosses a broken racecar in a dumpster, he makes a judgment of that toy’s value.

 

The cheapest parts of our toys may be thought of as worthless after years of playing with them. These same parts recycled in factories to make rows of un-blinking Barbie and Ken dolls, gain meaning and cost more money because of their marketable image.

 

How much are the meanings of toys affected by the inventors of the products, distributors to the stores, advertisers in the commercials, kids at the jungle gym and so on? When we begged our parents for what we wanted as kids, was there more than one voice whispering in our ears?

 

Or maybe, because of the oldness and uniqueness of our toys, we’ve learned to cherish them, hoping to teach others about their sacredness. Grandparents, for example, love to reach into their dusty past and open a creaky box with gems they discovered when they were younger.

 

And the grandchild, squirming and impatient with his grandmother, becomes curious about her music box, beneath its silver and rust. And then he sits inside that attic, with that old wheezing woman, listening to her story.

 

 

 

 

White Noise

December 8, 2011

Eve Langley

Cold and white, the snow falls upon him. Flakes cover him and his partner, providing natural camouflage. Dressed in all white, with only eyes peeking out from the snow bank, he shivers. Thick coat, pants, and shoes protect his body and his head is covered by a mask. There are no colors to be seen, a monochromatic landscape before him, though he knows inside his gloves rest two hands turning pink then red, much to his distress. A slight flex in grip sends the blood pumping through his hands, easing the pain of the stiffening cold. Wind whips the coverage, shaking snow from the tree tops and creating a low howl, the only sound he hears. A crackle in his ear startles him, pulling him back to his mission. Reaching his left hand slowly to his ear, he presses his com and whispers almost inaudibly “What?” He waits for the response, scouring the land with his eyes.

“Can you believe this? It’s Christmas morning, and instead of being back on base videoing home, we are stuck out here in this blizzard freezing our asses off waiting for this damn convoy. I can’t freaking believe this!” His partner grumbles through the coms, voicing her displeasure.

“Yeah well, that’s why we get paid the big bucks,” he shoots back, sharing in the silent chuckle that passes between them as only partners can do. Both of them knowing they didn’t get paid near enough for their jobs, and knowing that they wouldn’t trade their work for any other.

“Does base know when they’re getting here?” he asks, catching on to his partner’s anxiety. She always had a problem waiting for their missions to begin, though she had been at this longer than him.

“No,” she says. “Last time I checked in they said 30 to 40 more minutes, so we’ve got another 20 minutes before arrival.”

As this news sunk in to his cold, shivering mind he began to wonder how he got to this point in his life. The first time he held a toy gun at age 4, when he played cops and robbers for the first time, he knew something had clicked in to place. He always wanted to be the cop, saving the helpless dolls he stole from his older sister’s room. There was just something about the “bang bang” noise he couldn’t get enough of. The control and power that he was too young to understand what they were, but he felt all the same as he killed the robbers made his tiny toy gun his constant companion. At age 7 he was finally allowed to trade in his toy gun for a BB gun. It felt cold and lifeless in his hands the first time he held it. Sighting down the barrel of the gun just as his father had shown him, taking his aim, firing, and stumbling back against the unexpected recoil to his father’s laughter was a moment he would never forget. When his father placed his hand on his shoulder, giving him the nod of approval he always strived for was the happiest moment of his childhood.

“Johnny,” crackles the com in his ear, drawing him out of his childhood memories. “Hello earth to Johnny. What in the world are you thinking about?”

Shaking his head to clear the thoughts of the past Johnny replies. “Nothing, just letting my mind wander. Why? What’s up Dee?” Dee had been his nickname for his partner as soon as she had been assigned. She was 12 years older than him and had 10 years more experience on the job. Dee was just one of the guys to Johnny the day she walked in, and he valued her expertise more than any other. Daniela Delavega had walked in to the unit with her head held high and a huge grin on her face, announcing “Guess what boys? Mama’s home.” Daniela was the first woman to ever be assigned to the unit and though this wasn’t the first time it had happened to her, the change to being co-ed still took some time. At first the guys thought it was a huge joke, thinking no woman could possibly want to do their jobs, but when they realized she was there to stay that’s when the teasing started. They’d make comments to Johnny about how lucky he was to be paired with the first set of tits to ever grace the unit. It didn’t matter to him, he only saw Dee as a partner, gender not even taken into account. As a joke the guys had taken to calling Daniela Double Dee, and it ticked her off to no end. She had dealt with crews that never had a female in them before, although these guys had taken things to a new level. The guys said the nickname was based off her initials, but Dee knew better. Johnny tried to force the guys to stop, but Dee wanted to settle things herself. That’s the type of person Dee is. And Dee did settle it with a fist to the face of the next guy who called her Double Dee. “I don’t know what you’re used to but you will not get away with this crap here. The only person who can call me Dee is Johnny. Everyone else better keep to Daniela” she commanded, standing over the dropped body of the offender. After that Dee was left alone, except when a new comer challenged her. Then it was the most fun any body had to watch new guys try to fight Dee and see her beat them mercilessly. Dee was queen bee of the unit the day she walked in, it just took the other guys besides Johnny longer to notice it. Dee was top dog, and she deserved it as the first female spotter to ever enter the unit.

“How much time do we have left?” Johnny asks impatiently.

“Five minutes less than the last time you asked” Dee replies tartly. “You would know that if you checked you watch.”

Johnny shakes his head. “Dee would try to get the upper hand, even on a mission” he thinks. He looks at the electronic watch on his wrist showing 15 minutes until arrival, then looks father up his wrist to the watch stuck in its eternal tick, broken since the day he had received it from his Grandfather. It was on his Grandfather’s death bed that he was given the watch, place in his hands just beginning to grow with the first signs of puberty. The watch, tarnished gold from being used everyday by his Grandfather, still held his warmth as it was pressed into Johnny’s hands. The watch ticked its last beat as his Grandfather died, and with that the face of the watch cracked down the center, dividing time forever. But Johnny had noticed that over the years the watch would still tick, though only at moments of great pain or pleasure. The golden Rolex that held memories of his Grandfather became a good luck charm to Johnny, he never went anywhere without it.

Reminded of his family, Johnny asks Dee “So what would you have done if you were home today?”

“Probably still be asleep.” She jests, trying to keep both their minds stimulated and ready for work. “I’d probably be making breakfast and waiting for the kids to come over for lunch. You know my youngest turned 15 this past November. And the oldest had her first baby this year. It would have been my first Christmas as a Grandma.” She pauses, “I guess its okay to miss it though, I’m way too young to be a Grandma anyway. You couldn’t see me baking cookies and telling stories starting with ‘In my day,’ could you?” Dee asks. Johnny smiles, knowing that secretly deep beneath her hard exterior was a soul that always dreamed of being surrounded by her family.

Last Christmas they had both been off duty so they had sent each other family Christmas cards with pictures on the front. Dee’s family had seemed all smiles. They all looked so similar it was no task to see they were a family, height and hair length the only true differences. Caramel skin and dark eyes starring out from the faces of Dee and her 4 children. At 43 Dee had earned the right to be a happy Grandmother. He husband had died about 3 years ago, almost one year after she had transferred into the unit. It was a hard time for her, and Johnny had always felt bad that he never knew the man better. At least the relationship between Dee and her children had survived the loss; in fact it was even better now. Her children, ranging from 15 to 21, were her pride and joy. The youngest and shortest of the family, Matt, had just started high school this past year and was turning out to be a very promising forward for the soccer team. The twins Avior, named after his father, and Daniel both towering over the rest of the family at 18 were about to graduate from high school this May. Avior was going to a tech school for HVAC and Daniel was heading to the Marine Biology Institute in Florida. Dee’s oldest and only girl, Maya, was the spitting image of her mother, younger and with longer hair. She was visibly pregnant in the picture and flashing an enchanting smile. After the baby came Maya married her high school sweetheart and began teaching her 3^rd grade class. Dee’s family was something to be proud of, and she showed them off to Johnny at every chance.

Johnny never minded talking about Dee’s family as it gave him a chance to talk about his. Johnny had taken his love of shooting with him all the way into high school. He joined the drill team and the JROTC there. For all four years he spent his time between school work and shooting practices every night. Even his weekends were spent honing his skills and trying to learn all that he could. When Johnny made his first long range bull’s eye his Grandfather’s watch gave one tiny tick. That moment sent him to thinking about his future and what he would like to do. Still undecided as he graduated high school Johnny went to a nearby community college. There he spent most days regretting his classes and wanting to be out in the shooting range until a fateful bump sent him on his way. Head down, trying to keep the sun out of his eyes, he walked right into the shoulder of an unknown girl, jolting another tick from the broken watch. Her name was Amelia and she was just the thing to get Johnny onto the right track. She was smaller than him by almost a foot, reaching only 5’3”. And were he was bright, she was dark. His skin tanned and hair bleached blonde by all the hours spent outside shooting. Clear green eyes peered out in full view beneath the neatly shaved hair. She had long black curled hair down to her waist and brown eyes so dark they looked black. Their bump sent them down a long road starting with her helping him get into the Army National Guard. When Johnny received his acceptance into the military it felt right within him and the tick signaled the good news. After he had completed his training he asked Amelia to marry him. At first she said no, wanting to get to know him better. It was a year after that when she said yes and three months later they were married to the tick of the broken watch.

The next tick happened at the birth of his first child. It was exactly 10 months from the day they were married when Johnny’s son was born. The only problem with his birth was he was premature by 4 months. The doctors didn’t expect the birth that soon, but the baby came regardless. For the first month of his life Johnny’s son was kept in a small, translucent box with tubes coming from machines and attaching to his small, tiny body.  It was two months after his birth that Johnny’s son died to the ever slow tick and the heart wrenching sobs of both his parents. For years neither Johnny nor Amelia could think about having another child after that, but when Amelia became pregnant again they knew it was another chance. This time they had a little girl named Daisy. She would be 6 this coming spring and Johnny was sorry he was missing even one precious moment with her.

A tear rolls down Johnny’s face as he pulls himself back from the thoughts of his family. On every mission Dee and Johnny went on they thought of their families and how they were doing this for them. All the training and pain they went through was to make life safer for their families, and the understanding and connection between them reflected this. Spending months at a time in countries where they couldn’t even tell their families where they are was worth it if it meant that they would be free. A smile replaces the tears in Johnny’s eyes as he remembers this. Everything he did, he did for Amelia and Daisy.

“Convey approaching in t-minus 2 minutes. Get ready” Dee whispers in his ear. With adrenaline surging through his veins, Johnny flexes his fingers, making sure the blood is still flowing. He tentatively places his right index finger on the trigger, cold against his almost feverish skin. He applies enough pressure to assure himself that at the slightest flex the trigger can be pulled, and yet the gun is not in danger of going off unexpectedly. He smiles as the feeling of habit takes over him. Dee whispering the coordinates of where the hit will be, the wind speed, temperature, and all the other items of information needed to make an accurate shot. The feel of the McMillan Tac-50 in his hands, resting against his shoulder brings comfort to him. It’s his lucky weapon. Silence takes over the view as Dee and Johnny wait for the convoy to get into place. Nothing but the sound of the wind and the slow approach of the convoy is heard.

Then the convoy is in place. Dee slowly counts down the seconds until the shot is to be fired, “20… 19… 18… 17…” and Johnny slips back into his head, faintly hearing the steady countdown. The last time he saw his family they had been waving him off as he went from his house on base to the plane field where he was set to take off. Amelia had been holding Daisy in her arms, Daisy’s favorite spot. Daisy had been wearing her yellow sun dress, though it was too cold for it. She wore it every time he left because she said the daisies on it would bring him good luck. Her hair had been pulled back by barrettes, obviously by her own doing, as hair stuck out in unusual places. The nearly gapped smile that Daisy sent him showed just how big his little princess was getting. Almost too big to be carried in her mother’s arms, but that would be okay, for Amelia’s arms would soon be full once again. The night before he left Amelia told Johnny that she was pregnant, a great shock to both of them. The maternal love for her unborn child sparkling in her eyes and in everything she did that day told Johnny just how much she wanted this new baby. They were hoping for a healthy baby boy this time.

“13… 12… 11… 10…” Dee mutters, ever so softly so as to not give away their position. This was their moment to shine.

“9…” Johnny flexes his finger, wondering what his son will look like.

“8…” Johnny rests his finger on the trigger, “Will he have my green eyes or her brown ones?”

“7…” Johnny breathes in, “Will he have her black hair or my blonde hair?”

“6…” Johnny breathes out, “Will he be tall like me or short like her?”

“5…” Johnny breathes in, “Will he be head strong like me or passive like her?”

“4…” Johnny breathes out, “Will he want to follow in my footsteps and join the army or teach like his mother?”

“3…” Johnny breathes in, “Will Daisy like him as a little brother?”

“2…” Johnny breathes out, “Will Amelia and I be good parents to him?”

“1…” Johnny breathes in, “Will he be happy?”

“0…” Johnny breathes out and pulls the trigger.

Boom. The sound of a single gun shot erupts, disturbing the quite of the snowy, cold land. Silence follows, a white noise descending upon the snow bands, as the white landscape takes on a red hue, a startling contrast in the absence of color. One final tick sounds to the still deafened ears, one final tick for Johnny.

 

The Maidens

December 8, 2011

Corinne McCormick

My uncle had always warned me to beware of the sea maidens, for their songs were medicine for the body, but venom for the soul. His mind had always been clouded by drink, and had long been poisoned by the heat and sun. You would have been branded mad or foolish to believe a word of his utterances. Yet, in the autumn of my twenty fourth year, I found myself forced to believe in my uncle’s tales, as I found myself face to face with the substance of nightmares.

I had been at sea for three weeks. My body grew weakened and my heart ached for the simplicity of land. I had not anticipated following my mentor when I took my apprenticeship as a boy of sixteen. Mister LeHugh had been a benevolent mentor, treating me more as a son than as an apprentice. Both of his sons had perished from illness, and Mister LeHugh had been gracious enough to leave me his business when he retired, or passed- the latter of which seemed more likely.

I had always believed that the life of a book keeper would be confined to the tranquility of an office, but Mister LeHugh, crafty in his old age, had other intentions. Two weeks prior to our departure from Baltimore, he greeted me with open arms when I entered his shop early in the morning.

“Daniel my lad, pack your bags! I need you to accompany me on the voyage back to London. We leave in a fortnight!”

A lump had formed in my throat. “L-London, sir?”

He prattled on about opportunities and meeting with his foreign investors and wealthy aristocrats. It certainly was a wonderful opportunity, ideal for someone who had been named the inheritor of his business, yet my heart felt hampered with the heaviness of grief.

Cecilia.

I was not yet ready to be so far from my beloved. A gentle and patient woman, my Cecilia was heartbroken when I presented her with the news of my impending departure. We had just professed our undying love for one another, our courtship resulting in our engagement, and now our marriage was to be postponed. It was a horrible burden for her to bear, but as we said farewell on the docks of the harbor, she kept a genial composure, the tears remaining in her heavenly eyes.

Her figure, fading beyond the wake of the ship, was the last I would ever see of her.

Our captain, an experienced sailor named Brussels, had preferred the cautious route on our journey, rather than taking the hasty trip that would return me to my Cecilia faster. We were in the middle of the Atlantic when a storm struck. Mister LeHugh had cried that it was a hurricane, but I disagreed. To me, it appeared that the hands of the Lord had lunged down from the heavens, churning the waters until a man could not tell where the sky met the sea. Rather, all a man saw was a black abyss.

I was not aware that our vessel had sunk until the frigid water had reached my waist. Many of the men had desperately tried to lower the dinghies, but it was of no use. The storm swept the ship underwater, becoming crushed under a wall of waves, until we were all submerged.

Try as I might, I could not swim to the surface. The waves churned me around, disorientating me, rendering me blind. The water was black, deeper than I could have ever imagined. When I was thrown up to the surface, I realized how cold I was. The chill had not been apparent on the ship, but in the water, exposed to the air, it felt like millions of icy shards of glass were piercing my skin.

“Mister LeHugh!” I cried as I broke through the surface. When the black wave collapsed on me, I lost consciousness, and drifted in to a reluctant slumber with an angels name on my tongue.

Cecilia.

            I had opened my eyes expecting to see the opalescent clouds of heaven. Instead, I found myself deep in the trenches of the ocean. Everything possessed a violent gray blue tint, so intense in its saturation that I had to pinch my eyes shut until the pain of the vision receded. Initially, I believed myself to be dead, my soul wandering the scene of my untimely death, until I felt the slow, lazy pulse of my heart beating in my chest.

Where am I?

            I glanced up to my right, suppressing a startled scream as I saw the figure clenching my arm. A woman of exotic beauty, with ebony hair pleated with strands of silver. Her eyes were sharp and blue, brighter than any sky I have ever seen, with no white in their orbs. Her long, bare torso met a silvery tail that shimmered like the water. She took sight of me in my struggle to remain calm, her eyes widening in both concern and irritation.

“Keep quiet and submissive,” she whispered, “You are more handsome than some of the others. You might live.” Her voice was deep, not in tone, but rather it seemed to possess infinite wisdom and ancient strength. She spoke English, but with a peculiar dialect that I could not place.

My mind had grown clouded. I was aware that I was breathing, but I had not the strength to dwell on how I had the ability, leagues beneath the surface of the sea. I gazed at the creature besides me, her high brow furrowing as her pale lips grew thin. She was worried about something, her eyes fixated ahead.

I hesitated, but I could no longer contain my inquiry.

“You…you are a mermaid.” My voice wavered, possessing movement akin to the ebbs and flows of the surrounding waters. Her eyes narrowed at me, her black pupils thinning in to scrutinizing slits. She was angry, but not violently so.

“Yes,” she hissed, “My name is Ophelia.”

I repeated her name in my lazy tone, “I…I am Daniel.”

For a moment, I thought I saw her lips taper in to a small smile. Yet as soon as it was there, it vanished.

“Well Daniel, I hope you live.” She whispered, and then turned away. Her grip on my arm tightened as her body grew rigid. Following her eyes, I understood why.

A long, feminine figure moved out from behind a curtain of kelp dangling between two towering columns of gray rock. She too, was a mermaid, but she secreted with an unfathomable power. Her face was long and angular, proud despite her puckered lips. Whereas Ophelia’s eyes were clear blue, these eyes were bright violet. Her long hair billowed and flowed around her. It was silvery white with the faintest hint of gold as it twisted and twirled, possessing a mind of its own in her wake. Her long bare arms were covered with black tattoos that swirled around her wrists, up in to the crooks of her elbows. She had enough gold around her neck to drive any woman mad with jealousy. I spotted rubies, sapphires, emeralds, pearls and diamonds, all embedded in the metals. Their brilliance clashed with the stark white coral diadem placed around her high brow. Her tail was black, yet it shone with the brilliance of burning coal.

I knew immediately that I should be afraid.

“What is it now?” she said, her voice bitter yet hypnotic all the same. It was then that I realized that I was positioned in a line. All of the men- including Brussels and Mister LeHugh, were lined up, each with a mer-folk escort gripping their arm. I dared not make eye contact; I could only stare straight ahead.

“Your majesty,” all of the mer-folk greeted and bowed. The Queen huffed and swam over to a throne carved in to the sea rock, decorated with milky white stones that resembled pearls. She sank down on to the throne, keeping a keen eye on us mortals.

Ophelia released my arm, and swam up to bow dutifully beneath the Queen.

“Your highness, we present to you seventeen mortal men who perished in the great storm.”

The Mer-Queen’s gaze ran along our line, a sneer forming on her crimson lips.

“A lowly lot.” She sighed, waving her hand commandingly. Ophelia bowed once more and swam back to my side where her fingers soon wrapped back around my arm. I could feel her shaking.

The Queen rose off her throne.

“Well, well.” She spoke only to us mortals, her tone vindictive. “You trespass on my domain, foolish to believe that you have been granted safe passage. Do not question the tranquility that the sea possesses, it never lasts.”

Her tail whipped once, propelling her forward in to the water, returning to where the kelp curtain rested. The seabed there rose up from the rest, resembling a stage that she now proudly hovered above, the fins of her black tail fluttering indolently.

“Now that you have succumbed to the might of the sea, you leave me with the burden of deciding your fate.” Her violet eyes seemed to rest on mine, “Whether you live or die.”

She extended her arms by her side, almost welcoming, “Come. Face your judgment.”

I realized that I was third in line for presentation. The first man, two places to my left, was named Jack. A sailor the age of thirty, the Queen starred at him fondly as his escort brought him on to the platform.

“Young…” she swam around him, brushing the escort aside. Jack stood tall, with the discipline of his sailor trade, his shoulders back and his head held high. His feet were levitating above the sea floor, floating aimlessly. I could not see his face, but I knew that it possessed a stoic countenance.

“Strong…” her hands traveled up his arms, her lips lingering close to his ears, “Handsome…”

The Queen then caressed Jack’s shoulders, her lips trailing around his cheeks until, from what I could see, she gave the man a kiss. Jack’s body seemed to convulse slightly, before returning to the motionless stance it held before. The mermaid escort dutifully returned to Jack’s side, and led the dazed man behind the kelp curtain.

The Queen appeared unfazed.

I held my breath as the second man, Mister LeHugh, was brought to trial. Worry pounded deep within my chest. Immediately, the Queen’s face turned sour at the sight of the white haired man.

“An elder,” she scoffed, “Feeble, bah!” she circled around his rotund body, a smile inching its way on to her lips, “What do they call you above the waves, sailor?”

“F-Francis LeHugh, m-Madame.” He was trembling, his hands quaking by his sides, “And I am no sailor, Madame, I…I am a book keeper, a tracker of f-finances.”

“A tracker of finances…” the Queen swum around once more, her eyes roaming across his body, “I am afraid that we have no use for you here,” she snapped around to face him, her eyes wild but her smile kindly and beautiful, “Francis LeHugh.”

I am not sure what happened next. Many things seemed to occur all at once. Besides me, Ophelia had whispered for me to shy my eyes. I heard Mister LeHugh scream but I could not force my eyes shut, nor could I see the reason why. The men to my right gasped in horror. A gush of red spilled from before Mister LeHugh, a sight I easily recognized as blood.

“No!” I screamed, loosening my arm from Ophelia’s grasp. I was not quite sure how I was able to move as quickly as I did, but I drove myself forward the catch Mister LeHugh’s limp body as it fell backwards off the platform.  In the middle of his chest was a gaping hole, dark red liquid rising off from the wound until it spiraled out of reach in tiny wisps. Mister LeHugh was cold, his color pale and his eyes wide in fright. I knew immediately that he was dead.

A shadow loomed over me as I realized that the Mer-Queen towered before me. She did not appear shocked or angry, but rather mystified. Her mouth curled in to a smile, revealing blindingly white teeth and lips that appeared to be redder than before.

“I believe that you are next.”

“What did you do to him you…you…harridan!?”

The Queen was silent as she slithered back. I felt a gentle tugging on my waist, as Ophelia hoisted me up. I clenched Mister LeHugh’s body firmly, Ophelia tried to unravel my hands, though I would not give.

“Daniel,” she whispered, her voice soft as a pleasant sea breeze. I turned to her. Her eyes were beseeching, “Please.”

My fingers relaxed, and Mister LeHugh’s body drifted away from me. His escort, a merman, caught his body and carried it away, out of my sight. I did not have the time to grief for my fallen teacher, as the Mer-Queen began to encircle me.

“Daniel is what they call you?”

Unlike Jack, I could not stand still. I was certain she would take a dagger to my back. My eyes followed her, “Yes. I am Daniel Hasson.”

She made a noise of intrigue, as she begun a second circle. “Younger than the first…but not as handsome, nor as strong, yet-” she dashed around to my right side. I felt her fingers caress my shoulder as she passed, “There is courage in your heart…yes…” Her violet eyes met mine. “Yes I think I could have great use for you, Daniel Hasson.”

The way my name rolled from her lips, I almost believed her. Something in her voice brought me to the edge of trust and commitment, yet something pulled me back. I shut my eyes and tried to will the sting of her words away, though they continued to ring in my ears like the bells of a cathedral.

When I opened my eyes, I saw the Queen reaching down, her hands placed firmly on my shoulders, her smile seductive and sensual. Suddenly, her lips touched mine, and a jolt ricocheted through my body, my innards on fire from the lightest brush. I tried to push her away from me, but her strength surpassed my own. She continued to kiss me until the burning dissipated. I let out a moan. I felt dizzy. I felt ill. She seemed unimpressed.

“I am not one to be toyed with, and neither are my gifts.” she spoke in a bored tone, “They are given away and can be revoked just as easily.” Her eyes narrowed, yet her red lips curved in to a grin, “Do not try to make the mistake of insubordination again, Daniel Hasson.”

I was going to collapse. My body felt as if a hole was eating away at my insides, twisting and melting anything that came within its gaping touch. Ophelia rushed over to my side and kept me vertical. Had it not been for her, I would have fainted.

The Queen eyed Ophelia with the same haughtiness as before. “I expect you to keep a close eye on this one Ophelia. He will not be the only one punished, if he becomes seditious again.”

Ophelia appeared taken aback, her bright eyes struggling to remain unperturbed.

“Yes, Queen Doriana,” She bowed again, “I will make sure of it.”

Just like Jack, I was led behind the kelp curtain. I noticed that the curtain was the doorway between open ocean, and what appeared to be the insides of an elaborate palace made out of sea rock and coral, but I was too sickly and too shocked to pay too much mind. Ophelia swam, dragging me more than guiding me as I doubled over in pain.

“W-What happened?” I asked as Ophelia placed me in a corner, as far away from the kelp curtain as possible in this room. I did not see Jack, but I could hear the scream of one of the men outside as the Mer-Queen decided his fate.

Ophelia pursed her lips. She was livid, yet her eyes displayed trace amounts of sympathy, an attribute that the Mer-Queen must not know. “The Queen has accepted you in to our realm Daniel. She has bestowed to you the gift of our people,” She spoke hurriedly, glancing over her shoulder every other word. “It was foolish what you did, acting out like that after I told you to remain quiet and submissive! Now you are certain to be watched. You are lucky that my sister even spared you!” Her hand covered her mouth as she gasped.

I starred at her, feeling my heartbeat quicken, “You…are her sister?”

With her façade contorted in shame, she nodded, “We are the descendants of Poseidon. My sister is the Mer-Queen, ruler the sea, and you have just caused a great deal of trouble for the two of us.”

 

I did not remember slipping in to unconsciousness, but when I woke, the mermaid Ophelia was hovering over me, her dark brows lowered in quiet observation. It might have been the vividness of the underwater realm, but I seemed to be viewing the world with more clarity. I could see the tiny specks as they floated aimlessly through the water; everything appeared brighter and more distinct. Gazing up at Ophelia, I noticed that her milky white face was splattered with several small light spots, hidden beneath a layer of skin. They seemed to give her a more girlish appearance, as opposed to her sister, who displayed infinite amounts of womanly maturation.

She noticed my wakefulness, her lips parting as she sighed, pushing herself back.

“Good, you are awake. You nearly had a fit after you fainted.”

“Fainted?” I moved to sit up, but was forced back down by a shredding pain deep in my stomach. Ophelia pushed down on my shoulders with firm hands and a scowl upon her lips.

“Watch yourself now!” she scolded, “Your mortal wounds have presented themselves. You are vulnerable to great pain.”

I grunted, the burning inside slowly fading as I rested. “What about before? The only pain I felt before was when that Queen of yours kissed me.”

She shook her head, her ebony hair twisting about. “You were given a dosage of our starfish draught when we first discovered the wreckage of your vessel. It was the only way any of you mortals would have survived the trials.”

“And it is how we can breathe underwater?”

She nodded, “Yes.”

“And how is it that I can still breathe underwater?”

She did not answer. Instead, she swam over to what appeared to be a table made of polished stone that reflected like the surface of water, very much like a mirror. There was a gilded tray a top of the table, with an odd assortment of vials and canisters. Ophelia retrieved the tray and brought it back to my bedside. I realized now the tiny size of this room, though it appeared to be much larger because every surface was made of the polished, reflecting stone. When Ophelia moved, I saw her figure dance all around me, on every surface, repeating infinitely.

She uncapped one glass vial, “Stay still.”

She removed a black ball that she pinched between her long fingers. I recognized it immediately as a leech. With her free hand, she unfastened the buttons of my shirt. Against the chill of the water, her skin felt tenderly warm. I was certain that I would have blushed, had I not glanced down to see my abdomen-how bruised and swollen it appeared. Ophelia seemed to sense my fear.

“You will not die now.” She said, readying the leech, “but these wounds do make you appear rather unpleasant.”

She placed the leech on my flesh. I did not feel it bite, but I could feel it sucking my blood. I followed Ophelia’s careful hands as she opened a canister that hosted a dozen flat, white circular pieces. She motioned for me to open my mouth, as she placed the piece on my tongue. I shuddered as it touched my tongue; it was horribly bitter, making me feel ill. I longed to bite down but Ophelia stopped me.

“Do not bite. Let it melt,” she instructed, “Medicine.”

Not wanting to test fate, I let the piece melt. It fortunately did not take long until only the unpleasant memory of the taste remained.

Rather than watching the leech feast on my blood, I decided to make conversation.

“How many of the men did not pass?”

“Fourteen.” She fiddled with the items on the tray absentmindedly.

“Only three of us survived?” I was shocked. My heart and spirit sank as my mind whispered prayers for the souls lost.

“Yes: you, the man Jack, and the boy Peter.”

I feared for the latter. Peter was a boy of seventeen, a cabin boy who had barely experienced life. Jack was strong, and I possessed enough sense, how was he to survive this predicament?

“Where are they?”

“With their caretakers: the escorts who presented them to the Queen.”

“Your sister-?”

Her pupils slimmed in to slits as she glared at me. “Do not speak of that. The Queen and I share only blood and nothing more.” Her voice possessed a slight growl that made me shrink back against the bed.

I gulped, “The Queen then.”

Ophelia’s temperament seemed to have been soothed, “They are receiving medical treatment for any and all wounds they received during the storm.”

I nodded, glancing down to the expanding leech feasting on my blood. I had been treated with leeches before, once as a boy when my knee had near doubled in size by a sprain and one not too long ago when I had an intense fever. The sight was not new to me, but it was not a sight I was used to. A shiver trailed down my spine, and I looked away.

Ophelia was watching me with a curious eye.

I cleared my throat, “So…what happens now?”

“You rest,” she said, looking away, “Until your physical wounds have healed, which they will do more quickly than on the surface. Then you must join the Queen in welcome.”

“Welcome…” I scoffed, muttering under my breath.

Ophelia’s hand brushed over my wrist, “I am sorry about your friend, the elder.”

My throat grew tight, “All of those men were my friends, one way or another.” There was anger in my voice, a muted anger that I could not suppress before it seeped off my tongue, anger that appeared to frighten Ophelia. I retracted, unleashing a heavy sight.

“I am sorry. I should not have grown cross.”

“You have every reason to be angered, Daniel.” Her voice was soft, airy and delicate, “The life that you have grown accustomed to has come to an end. Now comes the time of rebirth.”

“You mean that I can never return to land?”

I knew the answer, but I had prayed that it was not the one Ophelia would speak.

“Yes.”

“What is going to happen?”

She starred at me, “I cannot tell you-”

“Why not!?” My tone rose in outrage, “Don’t you understand? My fate does not rest here! It belongs elsewhere, and it has been taken from me and you are saying that I do not have a choice!? The very least you could do is tell me what to expect from this purgatory!”

Ophelia blinked once, twice, her jaw grew slack as the corners of her lips turned down. In one swift flick of her arm, she popped the leech off from my abdomen, where milky white flesh remained, and threw the creature back in the gilded box. She rose, dropping the box on the mirrored table, before the opened a hidden door on the wall, slamming it shut behind her with one powerful swish of her tail.

I was alone.

Immediately I craved companionship. I had never lost control of my tongue before, and twice already, it had led me to trouble and loneliness in this strange new world. I must be more cautious.

I forced myself up on my elbows, wincing at the short pain that jolted my insides. With a few slow, deep breaths, it dissipated, though not entirely. I caught sight of myself in the reflective glass walls of the room. It had been ages since I had last seen a mirror, as one was not readily available on the ship. My image caught me by surprise.

My brunette hair, tousled rather than its usual tidiness, appeared much darker than normal, creating a vibrant contrast. Although I was leagues below the surface of the water, it moved softly, almost as if it was caught on a draft. My complexion appeared to be almost sickly, with faint blue undertones. Dark circles akin to bruises surrounded my eyes, which typically were the same color as the rich evergreen trees, but now they appeared bright, shimmering in the water…

I sighed and sat up entirely, a moan escaping from my lips. Moving through the water did not feel as difficult as it had before; my bare feet touched the ground, rather than hovering just above. I stood up, reveling in the sensation of solid ground. My first step was shaky, with my second step resulting in a stumble. Had it not been for the close proximity to the wall, I would have crashed to the floor. I continued to practice traveling, and, to my great disappointment, found it much easier to drift across the room, rather than take individual steps.

“If I am to live in the sea, I might as well swim.”

After crossing back and forth across the room several times, I collapsed on the cot in exhaustion. I panted heavily, my heart palpitating in my chest as I tried to catch my breath.  I decided not to question how I was still able to breathe and have a pulse leagues below sea level. I had only just discovered that this underwater realm existed; I did not need to add to the confusion.

Instead, my thoughts wandered to Cecilia.

Where was she? What was she doing? By my calculations, today was Sunday, though I was uncertain. Would she be in church, praying for me; praying for a soul now left to the mercy of soulless beings? She would not receive word for weeks of the ships demise, not until word comes back around that our ship never reached London, that it was lost in what was supposed to be becoming a less perilous journey.

My heart began to ache at the visualization of Cecilia’s face when she receives word of my death, the black mourning dress she will wear for weeks, months after losing her fiancé. Will she love another? Will she grow old, jaded and alone?

I shudder at the thought of her loneliness, fury billowing up inside of me.

How could my life result in this? Had I done something wrong? Was this the Lord’s punishment for my unknown sins, my own personal Hell? Forever doomed to wander in a watery grave, an outsider among the natives, and now an outsider to my own kind? How could this be possible; this is supposed to be a fantasy, myths and nothing more! Bedtime stories parents tell to their children, tales that old sailors bring up whilst inebriated. This is not supposed to be real!

Why? Why am I here? What purpose do I have in this underwater world? I would have preferred that Queen rip out and consume my still beating heart, rather than live in this purgatory. At least with death, there is closure, but not here, not now.

“There must be a way to escape…” I muttered as my hands ran down my face.

At that moment, the door opened, and there hovered Ophelia. Her ebony hair was no longer braided, rather it hung as long and as free as the Queen’s had. Around her waist was a golden belt encrusted with sapphires that matched her eyes. She did not appear upset, but she did not greet me as I had thought she would.

“Come,” she said, impatiently holding the door opened. My limbs ached as I rose off from the bed, though I had an easier time crossing over the door. Ophelia starred at me, her brows lowering themselves over her eyes as she studied me, before she turned and led me out of my room. A chill ran down my spine as I crossed the threshold. My mind was buzzing with rapid thoughts, humming around and around like honeybees.

Yes, I thought, There must be a way to escape, and I am going to find it.

            Ophelia glanced over her shoulder, making sure I was still behind her. The hallway she was leading me down was long and dark, lit only by glowing orbs that hung like lanterns on the walls. There were no windows, but rather the hallway was lined with arches that led out in to open ocean. From what I could tell, it was nighttime; even in the deep places of the world, the darkness of night could still breech the atmosphere.

“We are to feast with Queen Doriana this evening,” Ophelia said as she continued. I produced a noise of compliance, yet I was barely paying attention. My eyes were glancing at the view from the arches, where I knew that somewhere, out beyond the horizon, was an escape.

I will find it. My body was filled with adrenaline, No matter what, I will find it.  

 

The Fine Art of Raising a Teenager

December 8, 2011

Theresa Golden

 

I have found delight in every stage of my child’s life.  Just seconds old, the doctor placed this red-faced, wrinkly-skinned, seven-pound creature in my arms and it was love at first sight.  Or should I say it was love at just the sight of him.  I had already fallen in love before we ever met face to face.  Love like no other.   He announced his arrival with an attention-getting cry that for some reason sounded like music from heaven to me.  As I held him we talked.  I told him I was so glad he was finally here and he told me he was cold, tired, hungry, and that he’d like to get cleaned up.

 

Clean?  Every week I make my rounds with the vacuum cleaner.  Rec room, living room, dining room, master.  Then I come to his bedroom.  I slowly push the door open; partly in fear, partly because I need the extra minute to compose myself before entering the chaos.  The door opens completely, and I feel a small victory.  But victory is short lived.  What meets my eye makes my stomach turn, my brain go into overtime, and I feel hot steam coming from my ears.  Not one item is where it belongs unless the floor is now considered proper storage.   Jeans, candy wrappers, books, tees, pillows, balls, headphones, blankets, guitar, backpack, money, pizza crust, sneakers, camera, video games.  Ooooh… did I just see something move?  Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes as I close the door, and pretend I didn’t see what I think I just saw.

 

With a blink of the eye my little creature became a beautiful baby.  His cheeks filled out.  His hair grew.  His arms and legs became longer and stronger.  He smiled.  He ate.  He pooped.  He slept.  He did not come with an instruction manual, but somehow I knew what to do.  After his bath I would give him his last feeding for the day.  Calm and satisfied, I would hold him and we would talk.  With his nose buried in the crook of my neck and my nose catching the scent of pure, clean, sweetness, I would tell him how handsome and strong he was.  He told me he was tired after such a grueling day and needed to catch some Z’s.  I loved this time with him.  I held and rocked and rocked and held.  I thanked God for my angel as I watched him sleep.

 

Sleep?  Monday through Friday it’s the same thing.  His alarm

sounds…beep…….beep……beep.  Not being answered in a timely manner, it screams louder and faster…BEEP..BEEP..BEEP.  An arm in slow motion emerges from under the covers and feels its way around before finally finding the button to silence    the disturbance.  Five minutes later I still hear nothing that would indicate any sign of life in his room.  Knocking, he asks me for five minutes more.  Five minutes.  I think to myself you could have had hours more sleep had you gone to bed at a decent hour.  Quietly, I shut his door.  Saturday, Sunday, and holidays remind me of the days when we first brought him home from the hospital.  The days when he thought being up all night was cool and then slept so much during the day that I felt it necessary to frequently check on him just to make sure he was still breathing.  Damn those circadian rhythms of teenagers.

 

I turn around and he’s now walking and talking.  Running and playing.  Still inseparable, he is the best reason I have for getting out of bed each morning.  As he grew his favorite words, “no, no, no”, were replaced with “why?, why?, why?”.   Eventually, please and thank you joined the rest of his vocabulary.  He discovered he had a voice and a choice and wasted no time expressing either.  Bubbly and bright, my baby was becoming a determined, independent boy.  He still enjoyed our bedtime ritual of a story and a kiss.  As he fell asleep, I wondered what I did to deserve such joy.  Sometimes as I tucked the pale blue, feathery soft, satin-edged blanket around his small frame I could hear him rambling on about something, and I realized even in his sleep he liked to talk.

 

Talk?  Depending on the day, you may hear your teenager talk.  If you are really lucky you may even carry on a conversation that makes total sense.  You are more likely to get grunts and inaudible utterances said under their breath loud enough for you to have heard a whispery noise, but quiet enough to not hear any understandable language.  On a good day you may even get complete sentences.  “Where is my Green Day t-shirt?”  “I need $375.00 for band.”  “Can I have a sleepover, tonight?”  “Will you take me to the mall, now?”  “Where are the car keys?” “Is there any more soda?”  “Mom, I can’t find my biology homework.”  Teen to teen, however, is totally different.  Although it has been known for them to speak, with verbal language, to one another, their “talking” is actually what we parents would refer to as “texting”.  Whole conversations take place in the form of written language; mostly in abbreviations, code, and misspelled words.  What takes twenty minutes to accomplish by typing, sending, receiving, and replying could be accomplished in five minutes by simply having a verbal dialogue with one another.  Now, I guess between friends who have a mutual understanding of this type of communication, it is okay.   However, when my teenager tries this with me, I end up going bananas before we finish.  I play his game for just a few texts, and then finally end up typing “CALL ME NOW” to finish our conversation.  If you do find you have just had a pleasant, normal, verbal exchange, say at the dinner table, with your teenager, be very cautious.  Take this as a warning.  It means they did something wrong, they want something, or they may be about ready to begin maturing into an adult. All three are very scary.   Whatever you call it, talk, conversation, dialogue, exchange, chat, gab, or yak, my teenager seems to have a different definition for this, too.

 

When did he become old enough to start school?  My bright and bubbly toddler is now an independent, young boy.  He washes and dresses and feeds himself.  The time I have been dreading has arrived.  I must now share him all day with others his own age and with a teacher I don’t yet know.  I hope everyone is kind.  Elementary school days are actually very beneficial for both him and me.  He makes new friends, learns more than I am able to teach him at home, and becomes quite a polite, confident young lad.  As a volunteer in the school, I am able to be a fly on the wall and I watch him in action without his knowing it.  He enjoys seeing me in school, and isn’t afraid to give me a peck on the cheek or a hug, even in front of his friends.  In fact, he thinks it’s cool that all his friends know who I am.  As he progresses through elementary school, I progress through my ability to let go and help him grow into the person he is meant to be.  In Kindergarten he would recall his entire day with wonderful details and every paper was displayed on the fridge until replaced by an even more spectacular paper, drawing, or accomplishment.  By the time he was a fifth grader, although we still talked, summaries of his day were more concise and precise, and we didn’t have as many works of art to display.  We had a routine, an after-school ritual.  I looked forward to walking to the bus stop, enjoying that after-school snack of apples, pretzels, or carrots, and juice, while sharing our thoughts of each other’s day.  Life was simple.  Life was organized.

 

Organized?  Organization is not a word found in a teenager’s dictionary; at least not in his dictionary.  Topsy-turvy seems to be the order of the day, week, and looking back, even the past few years now.  New plans, a change of plans, spur of the moment plans.  Last minute call, no call at all.  Spontaneous.  Parties, tryouts, meetings, practices, homework, and such are so much easier when parents have more than a three-minute notice.  I need to keep a master schedule for our family posted in the kitchen.  It includes work schedules, meetings, baseball practices, piano lessons, parties, band practice, etc.  To assure myself that I was not crazy, I tracked the changes and additions for one month.  It was my teen who won the award for the most revisions in one month, fifty-two to be exact. But even when brought to his attention, he didn’t understand the problem.  No wonder I feel exhausted.  My resources of time, money, and energy are being depleted single-handedly by a teenage gangster.

 

He is in middle school now.  He doesn’t want me to walk to the bus stop or stop in and sit at his lunch table.  He checks his own agenda book and I no longer need to review homework answers.  We still have great conversations about sports, the news, the neighbors, and such.  He truly has a unique personality and is well on the way to becoming a marvelous young man.   He is kind and considerate, and even still enjoys being tucked in at night. I have more to be thankful for and still question how I got so lucky.   His increased independence has also set me free in many ways.  I am no longer just “mom”, but am starting to have a little of my own identity as well.  By the time he is finished middle school he will be a teenager.  Eeeeek…..did I say teenager?

 

The fine art of raising a teenager is not an exact science.   Teenagers are moody.  Sloppy.  Unorganized.  They are secretive.  Selfish.  Spacey.  They are impulsive. Unpredictable.  They are unique.  Researchers have explanations for their behaviors.  We are told that right before adolescence there is a huge surge in brain wiring; the same type of electrical-signal transmission that was once thought to occur only in babies.  Researchers believe that the part of the brain that is responsible for organizing and controlling impulses is not fully developed until the late 20’s.  Additionally, chemicals, such as Dopamine (which allows us to do constant triage in day-to-day life), are not yet at optimal levels for adolescents. So, low levels of Dopamine could explain why my teen completes homework, but does not turn it in on time, swears I told him he could campout overnight for concerts tickets with people I don’t know, or suddenly remembers at 11:30 p.m. he signed up to bring in home-made cupcakes for a bake sale in the morning.

 

Knowing there may be physiological reasons for the actions and attitudes of my teenager are some consolation.  The instruction manual, that I felt I did not need for him as a baby, would certainly come in handy now.  But all is not negative.  My teenager has made some fantastic discoveries and major accomplishments.  He has a flair for cooking and we have added more than one of his dishes to our family favorites.  His Polynesian chicken, a combination of pineapples and peppers with a ginger and brown-sugar sauce, is to die for.  He insists on preparing this meal with no help from anyone.  Shooing me out of my own kitchen he remarks, “Watch the pro.”   He dons my pink floral apron and seems not to care even though it clearly clashes with his jeans and Metallica tee.  Radio on.  Knife in hand.  He begins slicing fruit, vegetables, and meat; all while keeping rhythm to whatever tune comes on.  In no time at all, the delicate smell of the ginger and pineapple combined with the fresh aroma of green pepper and garlic fills the house and calls me to the kitchen.  Catching him off guard I see him doing a moonwalk across the kitchen while singing into the wooden spoon he is about to use to taste test our dinner.  His show of delight makes me chuckle and again I think how blessed I am.

 

He is also quite the entertainer.  He has been blessed with the gift of music and plays four instruments very well.   His favorite (this week anyway) is his electric guitar.  Deep red, heavy-shellacked body, six strings extended along a just as shiny deep-black neck.  It is personalized with an iPod “apple” sticker and a “Punk’s not dead, It just sucks now” bright yellow and hot pink sticker.  He gets lost when playing; so engrossed in the feel of the thin steel strings and the twangs and notes that he is making, that even when his eyes are not shut, I believe his is unaware of life around him.  Without an audience he truly is playing for himself.  I am not sure if he is aware of it, but I feel music is an outlet for him, a way to unwind, to de-stress.  He emerges from a “jam” session exhausted, but calm, with an aura of “all is right in the world”.  I smile, even though someone is pounding a hammer in my head and the buzzing in my ears, as if a swarm of bees have taken up residence there,  will not subside for hours, because I know he enjoys his “music”.

 

The fine art of raising a teenager is really the fine art of having patience and faith.  Patience, for God is not finished with him yet.  Faith, that the seeds that were planted into that red-faced, wrinkly-skinned creature will take sprout at the right time.

The Caller

December 8, 2011

Justin Poe

Joe’s Plumbing and Welding Services is a local, commercial, and residential company that makes no discrimination from job to job.

 

Typical day: 7:30am – 5:30pm

 

Call 1

Customer Service Representative:

Hello, thank you for calling Joe’s Plumbing and Welding Services, where your need for plumbing and welding services—and any fixes—can be quickly and cleanly relieved.  What brings us your call today?

 

Line 1:

Right, so I’m following this van of yours and fixes did you say?  You know where I can get any?

 

CSR:

Sir, we fix all leaks, breaks, drainage problems, etc.

 

Line 1:

Ma’am is me.  Right, so I’m following this van of yours and damn it is hot!  No A/C in this beater.  You fix that?

 

CSR:

Has our driver interrupted your daily routine in any way?  May I have the van number?

 

Line 1:

Van number?  I’m here burning up and… right, right.  I wrote it down here somewhere.  Give me a minute.

 

CSR:

Not a problem, Ma’am.  We are here to solve any complaints, handle any concerns, and accept any compliments about our services.

 

Line 1:

Right, here we are.  The number is A7450B.  So this driver of yours—

 

CSR:

Ma’am, I believe that is a license plate number.  I would need the van number that is located below the “How’s my driving?” sign.

 

Line 1:

I got that, too.  Number 434.  That’s a high number.  You got that many vans?  Anywho, this driver of yours, he was following me way too closely as I was driving up Route 1.  He tailed me all the way to my house, parked behind me, and followed me to my door.  Then he goes and asks my name and if he—can you believe this?—can come inside?  What the hell kind of business is this?

 

CSR:

Ma’am, we are a professional business and hold rigid standards.  Did our representative state why he had followed you home?

 

Line 1:

Nope, I went inside, called the police, came back out, and beat the s*** out of him with the butt-end of an old, rusted .22 I had lying around.

 

CSR:

Oh my L**d!  Ma’am, what would drive you to do such a thing?  Where is he currently?

 

Line 1:

Hey, he was coming on to me!  I don’t know.  I left him there when the police came.

 

CSR:

Ma’am, I need to file a report.

 

(All right, time’s up.)

 

Line 1:

Sorry, I’ve got to go—lawyer has arrived.

 

Call 2

Line 2:

Can I have Joe’s number?

 

CSR:

Ma’am, we are not to give out the numbers or any other relevant information about our employees.

 

Line 2:

What did you say?  Is this Nancy?  This is Rachael.  You better give me my husband’s number.

 

CSR:

Oh, I am sorry Ma’am; I had no idea.  Is there something wrong?

 

Line 2:

No, my phone died on me.  I just bought a new one and need our account number to transfer my contacts.

 

CSR:

I’ll patch you over.  Have a nice day.

 

Call 3

CSR:

Thank you for calling—

 

Line 1:

Yes, I know who I have called.  How’re you?

 

CSR:

Fine, thank you.  How may we help you, Sir?

 

Line 1:

Who said I needed help?  I just need a consultant on a broken toilet seat.

 

CSR:

Oh, Sir, this is the customer service number.  I can give you another number that will direct you to our home office that will—

 

Line 1:

Nah, I called here and I think it’s fine.  You have to know something about toilet seats, don’t you?

 

CSR:

Actually, Sir, I only handle the customer service side of our company.

 

Line 1:

Hm, noted.  So, on the side of one of your vans it said that if I had any questions or concerns or needed a consultant to call this number.  Why is that if you aren’t a consultant?

 

CSR:

May I have the van number?

 

Line 1:

Van One.

 

CSR:

Ah, Richard’s van.  I’m sorry, Sir.  Richard is a jokester and tends to give out our CS number to customers who need our services.  And he writes on the vans in colored Sharpies.  Do you remember if there was anything else written on the van?

 

Line 1:

Aren’t I a customer who needs your services?  There was another number that said someone named Nancy could fulfill all of my needs.  What does this imply?  And there was a picture of—I assume—Nancy beside the number.  Said: Call me anytime.

 

CSR:

Yes you are a customer, but—Bastard.  He takes what I say too hard.  Son of a b— (barley audible)

 

Line 1:

Are you okay?  Is this Nancy?

 

CSR:

I am fine.  No, Nancy is the name of his trashy wife.  The correct number is: 654-748-DIRT.  Call that one.

 

Line 1:

Okay, thanks.  I still have this toilet seat problem.

 

CSR:

What’s wrong?  I will note the problem and have a representative call you later today.

 

Line 1:

Well, I recently was having constipation problems and made an appointment to have a colonoscopy done.  I have this prescription I am supposed to drink the night before.  It’s bitter, creamy, and nasty.  Magnesium something—I don’t have it with me, it’s downstairs—called Move-a-Bowel.  So, I drank this noxious fluid and in thirty minutes was hit with raging, furious spurts and convulsions in my waist area.  I needed to use the glorious toilet seat we now speak of.  On the way to the bathroom, I tripped over a small stool, which I attempted and duly failed to leap over, catching myself mid-air in a bearing down position to the irate, unforgiving convulsions so taking over my midsection.  I humbled myself, pulling in my pride, and crawled up the stairs, tightly, to the bathroom.  I was able to stand upon entering the tile-floor room, so clean it was.  I fell once more while going to sit down and relieve the monstrous… I am so ashamed of myself.  Essentially, I grabbed the toilet seat when falling and pulled it off the commode.  I believe I have twisted my ankle and fractured my left forearm and wrist.  I am unable to stand.

 

CSR:

Sir, have you called 911?

 

Line 1:

John.  No, not just yet.  I figured I would call Nancy first for help.

 

CSR:

Sir, I am unable to help you.  Please call 911.

 

Line 1:

Nancy?  If this is Nancy, please help me!  I have fallen and I can not get up!

 

CSR:

Sir, we do not fix toilet seats.  Please call 911, or I will call for you.

 

Line 1:

I need Nancy.

 

CSR:

Sir, I have called 911 for you and explained your condition.  For Nancy, call 654-989-2341 and ask a man named Richard for his wife, Nasty Nancy.  The ambulance will be on its way soon.  I’ll stay on the line until—

 

Line 1:

One sec.  Emergency Services is calling…

 

(twenty-two minutes pass by and no answer on the line)

 

Call 4

CSR:

This call may be recorded or monitored for—

 

Line 3: mumbled and slurred

Nancy, call Joe.  I’m in the Georgeson emergency room.  I was beaten by some lady with a shotgun.  I’m lucky this crazy b**** didn’t shoot me.  I’ve a broken jaw, four fractured ribs.  S***, revenge my wounds, I love the sea, I’m in pain.  I need food.  These nurses are nice—like you Nancy.  So pretty.  And the male nurse is nice too.  He told me I would be okay.  I can’t feel my right leg.  Miss, can I have some more water?  (Yes, but remember not to move your jaw, otherwise your stitches will be pulled out).  Where’s Joe?  The van… where is the van?

 

CSR:

Steven, hold on.  I’ll call Joe.

 

Call 5

CSR:

Joe, Steven has been severely assaulted and is in the Georgeson emergency room.  Earlier, this woman called from booking at one of the police stations and told me all that she did to him.  You need to get down there fast.

 

Joe:

Another one down… another bites the dust!

 

CSR:

Joe, are you listening to me?  Turn the music off; this is serious!

 

Joe:

Nancy, hey, what’s up?  Yeah, Steven?  Yeah, I’ll be there as soon as I find that damned cell phone account number for Rachael.  She lost her phone.  I tried calling it and some guy asking for her picked up.

 

CSR:

I know.  Wait, she said the phone died…

 

Joe:

What?

 

CSR:

Yeah, she called asking for your number.  Something about her phone dying.  Wait, Steven!

 

Joe:

Yeah, it’s all making sense.  Those late nights, casual disappearances, lack of sexual activity and lust between us.  Steven… hm.  It could be Steven…

 

CSR:

No, Joe!  Steven is in the hospital.

 

Joe:

Right, right.  Steven and Rachael.  Rachael can’t be pregnant… not with Steven’s child, can she?  It’s my baby boy!  Ah, this sucks!

 

CSR:

We can discuss this later.  Steven needs you!  Can you get to him?

 

Joe:

Your questions suck.  I’ll be there, eventually.

 

Call 6

CSR:

Steven, Joe is on his way.

 

Steven: still mumbled and slurred

Yay! (well-drawn-out)

 

Call 7

Line 4:

Good, I’ve finally gotten ahold of someone.

 

CSR:

How may we help you, Ma’am?  Is one of our drivers—

 

Line 4:

Hell yeah one of your drivers!

 

CSR:

Stay calm, Ma’am.  What is your concern?

 

Line 4:

I’m sitting behind one of your vans, number 34, on I-695W, on the right-hand shoulder of the road.  Your idiot driver applied his brakes too quickly and I demolished the backend of his a**.  Where d’you get these drivers?  What is he smoking?

 

CSR:

Ma’am, are you okay?  Is anyone hurt?

 

Line 4:

I’m fine.  I don’t know about your driver, though.  He’s still inside the van.

 

CSR:

Have you called the police?  Have you checked to see if the driver is okay?

 

Line 4:

Nope, not yet.  I wanted to fill you in first on how terribly bad your frickin’ driver is.

 

CSR:

Miss, but is the driver okay?  Have you gotten out to check on him?

 

Line 4:

I’m not leaving my car!  He could be drunk, high, or super pissed, ready to kill me.

 

CSR:

Miss, I can assure you—

 

Line 4:

Hold on, I see him moving in his mirror.

 

Call 8

Line 5:

S***, Nancy, some dumba** lady just rear-ended me.  I’m sitting on—

 

CRS:

Yeah, I know.  Are you okay?  The woman refuses to get out of her car, fearing you are going to kill her.

 

Line 5:

I think I’m fine.  The seatbelt dug in a bit.  Airbags are not safe, just to let you know.

 

CSR:

Good, you’re okay.  All right, call the police and get her info.

 

Line 5:

Hell no!  I’m not getting out.  This lady is frickin’ crazy.  She might try an’ kill me.

 

CSR:

Tim, I talked to her already.  She’s not evil—just, weird.

 

Line 5:

Wait, sheriff is pulling up behind her.

 

Call 7

Line 4:

Miss, are you still there?

 

CSR:

Yes, an officer has just pulled up.  Is ev’rything okay, Miss?  N’one hurt?  I don’t think so officer.  Airbags are painful.  I haven’t gotten out to check on that idiot up there.

Ma’am, he is fine.  He says you slammed into him as he was slowing down behind a traffic accumulation.  Is this correct?  Damn right it is.  That idiot goes and slows down all of asudden.  Miss, were you putting on make-up while driving?  Please step out of the vehicle.  No, no.  None of that!  Miss, there is make-up on your passenger seat.  I need you to step out of the vehicle and present your license and registration.  Ah, help me!  Somebody please help me!  Hey, idiot over there, help!

 

Call 8

CSR:

Tim, what is going on?

 

Line 5:

Aw man, this woman has made my week!  This is ridiculous.  She’s refusing to get out and the officer is calling for backup, ha ha.  Aw man, he’s opened her door and trying to pull her out of the car.  Aw s***, this is hilarious.  She’s gotta be on something.

 

CSR:

Has the officer said anything to you?

 

Line 5:

He just told me to sit tight for now.  He’s got an ambulance on the way; I don’t know why, though.  Probably to take that woman away, ha ha.  Dang, two more cars.

 

CSR:

What’s happening?

 

Line 5:

Snap, she’s out of the car beating the hell out of the officer.  S***, she’s got a steering-wheel lock!  O, one officer down.  Ah ha hell yeah, there’s the taser.  Damn, tazed her a**.

 

CSR:

I have a call coming in.  Let me know what happens.

 

Line 5:

Ha ha, definitely.

 

Call 9

CSR:

Hello?

 

Line 2:

What the hell is this Nancy?  What are you doing giving my cell out to random people, telling them my wife can fulfill all of their desires?  This guy would not let me off the phone, saying ‘Oh Nancy.  Where’s Nancy?  Come see me at the hospital.  I need a visit.’ Not cool.  This is no way to get back at me for not fixing the dish washer.  I was on-call.  And Nasty Nancy is it now?

 

CSR:

Richard!  I knew that would get to you.  I’m trying to spice things up.

 

Line 2:

Are things not spicy enough?  What, are you giving out bedroom secrets again?

 

CSR:

Maybe.

 

Line 2:

Not cool.  Especially not to old men who need their toilet seats repaired and who can’t read the label and warning of a laxative.  My Naughty Nancy, n’one else’s.

 

CSR:

Blah, blah, hub.  How’re you going to get me back?

 

Line 2:

I’ll be home later than you.

 

CSR:

So?

 

Line 2:

You keep this up and I’m getting out the spurs.

 

CSR:

You can’t tame this Mustang.

 

Line:

Whip and saddle it is.  I’ll stop at the ranch on the way home.

 

CSR:

Bring it wuss.  I’m no rodeo clown donkey.  I’ve heels and horns.

 

Line 2:

Wearing heels to work now?  What else?

 

CSR:

I’m not falling for that.  Come an’ see.  Dinner is admission.

 

Line 2:

Good, you’re cooking.

 

CSR:

No food, just…

 

Line 2:

You’d better be naked when I get home.

 

End Call.

 

Marie et Emilio: Stairwell Love Tune

December 8, 2011

Nick Ring

 

3-14-11

Rise and shine, its go time at 8 this morning! We hop on a bus for a tour of Paris given by a gay local with a tremendous sense of humor, referring to Madonna as “the Queen of America!” Then he’s the “Queen of France.”

We arrive at the Louvre at noon and find lunch before entering. I go to a pizza counter and ask, “How long until the pepperoni is ready?”

“Five minutes,” says the woman.

“Then can I have that piece of cheese pizza?” I ask pointing to the slice.

“OK.” she says, looks me in the eye, and precisely scoops up the slice and throws it in the trash. This happens twice, shoonk, that thin plastic noise and bottomthunk, so again I ask for pepperoni.

She says, “Five minutes.”

 

The Louvre is full of biblical Renaissance paintings and Greek and Roman statues- not great to photograph. The Mona Lisa is more of a disappointment than expected- the colors are not pleasing, its tiny, a straightforward portrait, and there is a thick, international crowd, squeezing in to take terrible pictures of one of the most reproduced artworks of all time. I don’t get it! Although I do have much respect for Da Vinci.

 

I spy a little lad, half the height of the surrounding Mona Lisa crowd, trying to call out, but chokes on his hysterical breath and tears run down his devastated red face. I ask him if he is lost, what his name is, who he’s looking for, one question each in English, French and Spanish. I can’t understand the language of his answer nor he me. His eyes are so frantic I want to cry too, remembering the feeling of being lost in a department store grabbing a hand with a familiar looking ring but a downward looking stranger’s face. But this is the Louvre! According to Andrea, you can’t see the whole thing in 18 day trips. In a matter of confused seconds, the boy and I realize the immensity of his lostness, and before I can get the help of the proper tongues, he runs off still in the terror of the Louvre, swallowed under the waists of the crowd while universal, ancient stone faces cast their crushing stares down upon him, and painted eyes of historical heroes follow him as he passes, and abstract faceless sculptures bend their shapes around him in this maze of culture. I am lost with him.

 

Leaving the Louvre, we see a homeless man curled up on the sidewalk, and curled at his belly in the exact same shape is his feed-me-eyed little dog. Cory has been trying to get real, raw photos of people in the course of their lives, you know, un-posed folks doing what they’re doing. I’ve been trying the same, but the frequency of homeless people makes me want to cry- at least one for every block of Paris and most have dogs, no pans to handle, but a stray for every tramp, I guess, which is beautiful in a way. Cory takes the man’s picture. In some twisted moral concept, we agree that throwing a few Euros into the beggars can makes snapping this image more forgivable.

Twenty paces later, there is a homeless woman trembling, missing her long gone leg, barely able to sit up through her hunger. It is tragic to pick and choose who might eat today, knowing that I could give it all away becoming an ascetic street monk, but everyone I love would hate me- so I search for the balance between human love and universal love: the tao. Even if I knew this woman’s language, I am too timid to talk to her and express the madness of societal circumstance. It would take the rest of my life for us to come to a happy, holy communion concerning the eternal OK-ness of the universe as we would sit on that sidewalk cross-legged across from the Louvre never sleeping, eating or drinking, just becoming Bodhisattvas to come back for the others. We would feed Holy Communion to the pigeons.

Cory, Mary, Mandi, Mark, and I walk the eye-deceiving straight-shot from the Louvre to Le Arc de Triumph- it’s a tad more than a mile. We spend all day walking, taking pictures and feeling like we’re really “in” French life, walking through beautiful parks with jungle gyms for children, carousels for children and adults, reflecting pools for Parisians to sunbathe, croquet for the old men, water fountains for all to drink, but nobody walks on the lawns. Together we discuss how young America is, a baby, a newborn, who knewitall from the get go. So wrong, sit down. Take a lesson. You can feel it in the air- experience and the magic of age wafting in currents above Europe. The Arc is amazing, approachable through an underground tunnel, above which cars move in a circle with 6 or 8 entrances, with no lanes, crisscrossing without signals- an impossible traffic device where I was shocked not to see an accident. I’ve seen it in movies, but man it’s crazy in person, only Dean Moriarty could split that, maybe even blindfolded. We make our way past avant-garde, classical music, break-dancing, interpretative dancing, and a hip-hop street performing crew to the subway to get back to the art market in Mon Marte for sunset.

Upon arriving, we decide to shop for images elsewhere. I wander as guide, begin to hear music, and follow it. Reminds me “What a Wonderful World” this is; that’s what the performer on the metro breathed through his accordion lung, reminding me of beautiful dumb-saint Matt Rohrer, tragically gone as chosen. On the landing halfway down a tremendous stair-set alley, a young man blows a sweet and lonely song on his golden saxophone while his amour dances, interpreting the music with her hair scarf and gypsy dress flowing, sensually bending legs, hips, belly and hands to the notes that bounce from her man’s horn up and out her skirt, bouncing back and forth between walls, wrapping around her. They are both blonde. At that moment the sun begins to fall and redden. I am the first down the stairs to give coin pieces and snap pictures. The rest of my group trickles down behind, slinking down the steps. She smiles shyly with soft round features, cute as my love and expressive as she, like Jade. The man puts down his sax to pick up a classical guitar hidden in its case. The blonde smiling mademoiselle begins to sing between rolled cigarette drags and puffs, providing melody over finger-picked European chords strummed top to bottom, bottom to top. They are so beat and handsome and picturesque, I am inspired to be confident in all the loves of my life, and truly believe that these young birds are in love. They grin and hold each other with their eyes, both singing the final love tune chorus. We cheer with cheer of beer warmth and deserved Euros tossed for fellows of foreign countries et family of spirit! They take a break and converse their lives with ours, the accent contagious, the vernacular Franglais, a more human bond than the concerns of correct words. They are Marie and Emilio. Cory flirt-speaks with the gorgeous and lovely young Marie, all adorable smiles, round eyes, and musical laughter language of pleasant to meet you here in this one-in-a-million place in time and odds of it all- it evens out.

While Cory was talking to her, the sax player asked to share my lighter, in turn sparking my steps to an evening enlightenment. We share our stories communicating more clearly than many Americans that I talk to. He tells me he is studying film at “The University,” and I tell him what I study and do and what I really want to do- play music for a living, to not be a starving artist. After a few minutes he offers me his guitar. I pretend to hesitate but I wanted it from the first moment I saw these accidental genius gypsy heroes. At first I strum to warm and stretch my fingers, too excited and nervous to choose a song. I sing “Good for Your Soul.” Feeling it- so is Emilio. He jumps for the saxophone. His beautiful Marie sits in between us to smile and sway. We groove like pigeon heads. Emilio does what Shaman Funk should, wait through one verse and chorus, hear the idea, then slowly take off from the ground up. I swear the music we made was heard by the naked ear of all of France, and halted all movement in the city of Paris.

The sunset birds gather in nearby trees chirpin’ and choutin’, “Yes!”

“Blow man, blow!”

“They’ve got it!”

“Tweet tweet, sweetie! I think I love you. Now let me prove it!”

“Turn it on! Turn it up!”

“Go man, go!” And the lovebirds cuddle in the trees waiting for the sun to finish falling, waiting for us to leave for only one reason- so they can make it in peace and privacy of night. My friends photograph and take video of this impossibly perfect scene. Je t’aime Pareee! When the song ends, all the three of us musical souls can do is laugh! Emilio in the way of another long lost brother breaks the giggles by asking, “Was that you’re song?”

“Yes.”

“Another.”

I want to see him wail, so I kick it up with “Freight Train.” He plays my songs like he wrote them and I’m just trying to keep up, but he knows how to share, trading my vocals for his woodwind every other phrase, guitar really just rhythm. Marie sings “Oooohs” and “Aaaaahs” and “Oooh la las” in the background. When the song is over, I hear applause behind my back where an international crowd had gathered, some city picnicking their dinners, some standing, some sitting along the stair alley.  Emilio immediately calls, “Another!”

Marie quietly, and, for the first second since we met, stops her smiling. She says to Emilio in French something that I somehow know to be, “Remember our plans? It’s almost time to go.” But the tone of her voice and words sound like, “Don’t forget, we’re not dead yet. This ain’t heaven, although I wish it was.”

Emilio nods, turns to me and says again, “Another!”

Marie looks at me life-serious, “You have to give it all you’ve got.” Then she stares in my eyes in silence and once she knows I understand, she smiles again with her sweet heart, at me, then at her sweetheart. I decide to play my dead serious existential song of sour joy- “Through the Fog.” And like the previous songs Emilio waits till after the chorus to jump on the bandwagon making that song beat and bop and evolve. I want to play music with them forever. Marie begins to improvise words in English singing, “I dream. You dream. We die.” Oh my soul, what a couple of sweet fools! Emilio holds onto the end of the sunset stairwell lovetune for dear life. Neither of us wants to let it go. He finishes with a phrase that sounds like a dream ascending, like a burnt offering dispersing out of the stairwell step by step. Our spirits cheer for this most amazing half hour. However because this is not heaven, we all must journey onward. We all embrace. Everyone is in love.

I want to say, “Super perfundo on the early eve of your day.” I say, “Enjoy your life and create a universe.” I tell them they made my trip. What a first jam with a saxophone player! What a last night in Paris! I do that instead of getting their information like old time letter writing address or 20^th century long distance phone number or 21^st century socially inept idiot facebook friends. Fuck facebook and its “friends.” Fuck ones and zeroes. Let’s keep this human- scratch that, keep it mammal, animal- I’ll pick the ticks off your back if you scratch mine then we make mammal warm blood love. Let’s keep this poetic Marie and Emilio.

They walk down the stairs and we walk up the stairs, and all I can do is grin, wonderin’ where they go and in how many reincarnations will we meet again. I’ll never wipe this smile off my face. My fellow photographers had never heard me play: they were impressed. Two quiet girls, Heather and Megan, join us for joyrowdy dinner. Still thinking about Marie and Emilio, I feel and realize all that potential power that never gets tapped- it’s easier to let go of everything and just go!

Cory and I solidify our friendship by chasing an elusive graffiti spirit that seemed to appear to us on a different corner upon each reveal. After an hour we haven’t found it and decide to grab a beer at Le Saint Jean and hear the last notes of some local Django jazz. We drink tall Amstels, talk life and mutual acquaintances, and then hit the streets again. Glorious graffiti shrines perfectly lit and crumbling in the dark backstreets, then finally we find the art we’re looking for, photograph while lying in the gutter, using street garbage cans as tripods, and as foreigners in a paranoia of beer buzzes, return to the Tim Hotel for the last time.

 

My Buddha and Me

December 8, 2011

Rachel Martinez

 

Calmly resting among the dusty worn books, eyes closed, hands enfolded within each other, face scrunched up and plumped out in a jolly smile, he sits day after day. He is the epitome of serenity, continuously practicing the art of “om” as he cheerfully ignores the hectic angry world around him. Day in and day out he maintains his peaceful countenance, unperturbed by the various missiles launched by the loud, careless and sometimes temperamental young woman whose room he shares, no matter how close they come to knocking him from his shelf.

Sometimes on her bad days the woman attempts to converse with him, but she just never seems to understand his response. After much stomping around and numerous expletives, the “talk” usually goes something like this:

WOMAN: Do you ever do anything except sit there and smile at nothing?

BUDDHA: om.

WOMAN: If I threw you, would you feel it?

BUDDHA: om.

WOMAN: Fuck! Say something! Aren’t yall supposed to be full of wisdom and masters of peace and shit?

BUDDHA: om.

WOMAN: You’re fucking useless.

Unbeknownst to her, he sometimes contemplates breaking his peaceful silence to give her a piece of his mind about how fucking obnoxious she can be, but then he remembers his ancient teachings and decides to hell with it. One day she will understand what his message is – he has time to wait.

Being only 1.5 inches tall one would think it would be easy to overlook the little Buddha; but upon entering the room, eyes are almost immediately drawn to him as his ivory skin and robes gently shed light and peace even in the darkness. Despite constant cleaning, a light layer of dust covers him and the books that surround him, but it only enhances his old world appeal and the ancient ways he embodies.

In between his meditations, he attempts to act as a mini ray of joy in the life of his young female charge. Through the laughter, the tears, the temperamental outbursts, and the profanity he shines, light never wavering. Sometimes the young woman takes notice of that smile and returns it with one of her own. Whether she is bustling around – preparing for another busy day or the next great adventure – or is at rest, he firmly stands guard, never leaving her side.

______________________________________

When I was 17 my parents took me to a unique Japanese antique shop but I have to admit, I was not overly enthused. I love exploring different cultures so I had no problem with the actual place, but it was nothing like the pool party I was missing because my parents wanted to have a “family” day. My parents’ cheerful descriptions of what the day would entail did nothing to alleviate my adolescent sentiments that the day was going to be seriously lame.

Morosely I wandered through dimly lit pine scented aisles until I came across a selection of ivory figures that caught my attention. Since it would have been hard for my accident prone self to break them, I figured it would be safe to pick them up and examine them further. Most of the little figures were intricately carved animals and fish, but in the midst of the Ivory Kingdom I found a little Buddha. Something about this little smiling divinity intrigued me, so I plucked him up. As I held him closer to the light so I could see his carvings better, my mom came up behind me and said, “You need some Buddha in your life. Too bad they don’t have the real thing, because he could teach you how to be less of a B” (my mother doesn’t swear, but really she was calling me a Bitch).

I did end up getting that little Buddha. Partly because I thought he might somehow influence me to be less bitchy, but also because I just felt drawn to him. I set him on the top shelf of my bookcase, the closest thing to a throne my room could offer. Every day since he has sat there, calmly overseeing life in the Martinez household, never judging, just smiling and evoking a sense of peace in anyone who stopped to stare. It’s funny, but sometimes I feel like he is a little guardian, and that I was meant to find him so that he could make sure I always took some time out of my busy days to experience a little “om”.

_______________________________________

Worlds collided, silence violently broken, no gentle reminders of the peaceful calm from only moments ago – the room that had originally been still was now alive with the metallic grinding of gravelly voices and squealing guitars – this was how the mornings started, after she had risen from her resting state – a nights long sleep was all he too had to rest himself, poor little Buddha – and then the noise of the day started again, that daily assault of western sounds on his delicate eastern ears, giving new meaning to “when east meets west” – which, come to think of it, makes one wonder, what did Buddha listen to centuries ago – did he dance and sing, or did he play any music himself – for all anyone knew, he might have been an early metal man himself, inventing the earliest form of electric guitar on his many enlightened wanderings – an early Lars Oric if you will, minus the tattoos and piercings probably, but pure metal nonetheless -

The young woman entertained these thoughts as she patted the little Buddha with her index finger, after pressing play on her sound system with that same finger – oh that dreaded trigger finger – almost as if she were preparing and apologizing for the musical onslaught that was to occur within the next few seconds – this would puzzle most people: “Who cares what a miniature ivory figure would think?” – but no, she was not like most people – she disregarded the “normal” practices and thought processes which is what drove her forward, making her see what others inevitably missed, caught in their narrow existence –

Boom boom boom boom – the base began to pound – then the shivering of the cymbals sounded; quickly followed by the strings of the Trans Siberian Orchestra – the calm before the storm – click click went the volume button as the woman bobbed her head, eagerly waiting for the – ahhhh the magnificence! The poetry of that deep, rough voice, the shrieking of the electric guitar as it rapidly built in crescendo –

As the base built, Buddha – being only one shelf above the monstrously loud music player – bumped with the base, but it was not unwanted as the woman thought it was – had she not turned away to start her morning workout, she would have seen that smile get a little wider, those eyes get a little brighter – with his hands held immobile at that moment he could not fist pump the classic rock sign – and as she pumped up and down with her pushups in the next room, he too started in on his morning workout – with the magic that only happened when no human eyes were upon him – he began to dance.

_____________________________________

Outside the air was damp and chilly; the wind was blowing, showering the streets with gold and red leaves as the trees gently swayed. Autumn was in full swing, and the crisp air was scented with the tell tale wood smoke of early evening fires. Orange lights twinkled merrily in the twilight, winking from their bushes at passersby; ghosts, witches and pumpkins grinned cheerfully on front lawns. It was finally Halloween night, and the quiet family neighborhood on Regina Drive was eagerly preparing for a night of festivities.

Inside townhouse 1310, however, the atmosphere was not as peaceful but just as energetic.

“COME ON!! HURRY YOUR ASS UP THE PARTY IS GOING TO START SOON!”

My best friend Alex, usually the last one ready before a night about town, was surprisingly the first one ready to go tonight.

“I’M COMIN’ WOMAN! HOLD YOUR DAMN HORSES!” I yell back down the stairs.

“DON’T YOU GIVE ME THAT TEXAS SASS! HURRY UP TRAFFIC IS GOING TO BE HELL!” she yells back at me.

Muttering under my breath, I do a weird little jump-dance combo while I try to quickly shove my legs into my fishnet stockings. Two minutes later I’m miraculously fully dressed, little Moulin Rouge costume, perilously high heels, short black veil and all. I grab my clutch, head down the hall, and start to crawl down the stairs (have you ever tried to run in 4 inch stilettos, especially down the stairs? Don’t judge) when the cuckoo clock my grandmother gave me struck 9pm. Just at that moment the lights shut off with a determined “zzzzzzmmmm”.

“Gosh damnit what the hell!” I groan. Great. Just what I need. We will definitely be late getting to the party in Virginia now.

“HEY OUR POWER WENT OUT!” Alex yelled up.

“REALLY?! I HADN’T NOTICED.” I tried to be as sarcastic as possible. I could feel the headache starting already and I hadn’t even had a drink yet. Damn.

Thump. Thump. Thump. A small shadow, presumably Alex’s head, appeared in front of me close to the top of the staircase. Apparently she had to crawl up and down the stairs too because her heels were just as dangerous as mine. (See? It’s not so unusual).

“What do you want to do?” She asked me.

I sighed. “Fuck it, let’s go. It’s Friday night, nothing we can do now. Why stay in with no power?”

“Truth. ‘Aight let’s do this then!” Her shadowy head exclaimed.

We do our usual whoooop whooooop pre-party cry as I crawl down the first couple steps, when I hear something crash in my bedroom behind me. Alex and I both scream at the same time, as I jump at least a foot in the air.

“What the fuck was that!?!?!” We squeal at the same time.

Quickly I motion her to be quiet, and we freeze, looking like caricatures worthy of our own comic strip. Silence. We stare at each other, barely breathing, waiting to see if any more noise will be made.

I stand up and throw my hands out. “This is ridiculous. We are on the second story. Like someone can really climb up the side of the house and jump through the window” my voice booms out in the quiet house.

“You don’t know! It’s Halloween, anything can happen!” Alex whispered fiercely.

“HA! Right. Ok spook scout you stay curled up on the stairs, I’m gonna go check out what happened.”

Carefully I walk into my room, feeling along the wall next to my bed. I bump into my bedside table, open the drawer, and find my flashlight. I turn it on, turn around, and sweep its light across my room searching for the source of the noise. Immediately I notice that my book case on the opposite side of my room was the cause of the hysteria. The top shelf was completely devoid of books, as if a giant hand had knocked everything off it in one sweep. I take a few steps closer, squinting in the dark, trying to see if my figurines are at least ok.

Suddenly I freeze, my breath catching in my throat, and my chest feels like it did that one summer when the boa constrictor I was holding started squeezing itself around me. All my figurines are knocked over. All, that is, except one. And as he calmly stretched his little arms above his head, he stared back at me with sparkling round eyes.

A dry squeak escapes my open mouth, and my eyes feel like they are almost popping out of my face at this point. I try to run backwards, back to Alex, but I trip and fall (stupid stupid heels!) right on my butt. I hear a tiny chuckle from above me.

I lay there for a second, not knowing what to say or do. Finally, out from that numb dumbstruck feeling one gets when they realize something so ridiculous is happening, but they feel powerless to do anything else, I whisper up into the dark “Buddha? Is that you?” I feel insane as soon as the words leave my mouth.

“No you twit it’s Santa Clause. Of course it’s me! Stand up please.”

I quickly obey his command. He may be tiny and made of ivory, but he was still Buddha so who the hell knows what he can do!

I straighten up all the way, coming eye to eye with the miniature wise man. My eyes are still bugged out, but at least my brain had enough sense to tell my face to shut my mouth so I wouldn’t look like such an idiot. I point my flashlight back into the top shelf, careful not to blind him. I didn’t want to make him mad!

Buddha nods his approval, smiling cheerfully at me as if this was the most natural encounter in the world.

“Well, it’s about time we’ve had a face to face chat! All those years we’ve spent together. Just doesn’t make sense does it?”

“uh, heh” I dryly chuckle. Right, because this right here made much more sense.

He jumps up and down, probably still working the kinks out from standing for… wait, how often did he “wake up” like this?

I clear my throat, choke on myself, cough for a few seconds, then try again. “So how often do you, um, err, come alive?” I tentatively croak out.

“Just for one night a year. The night your century likes to call Halloween. See, it is precisely at this moment in time when the spiritual realm and this realm overlap. This enables spirits to cross back over, and enjoy a night among the living!”

Oh no. “Does this mean statues and gargoyles are going to come alive all over the world too?”

He stares at me with a “you’re retarded” expression, looking surprisingly miffed for someone who was supposed to be so jolly and divine-like. My mother was right. I guess I am capable of trying the patience of a saint.

“No” he said slowly, carefully emphasizing his words as if he were speaking to a two year old. “Only spirits can cross back over. Not mythical objects humans create as representations of ideas they barely understand. I used to be alive, but obviously quite a long time ago, so here I am in this form.”

“No offense,” I say, “I am really honored – and scared  – but still honored, because you are, like, the nicest holy man ever. But why are you here, in my room?”

“One may not choose their destiny, or their next mission in life. I was created in the east, but shipped to the Americas with my new body’s creator. However, when I saw you in that store many years ago, I chose to go with you, my little one. I saw into those sad eyes, that good but troubled spirit, and felt that you could use a watchful companion. You were so lost, but with a little guidance look how far you’ve come!” He beams at me like a proud father.

Slowly my shock and fear ebb away as I begin to relax. I smile back at him, feeling oddly comfortable around my little guardian. Then Alex (man, I’d completely forgotten about her during my divine conversation!) whispers from the staircase “RACHEL! Who are you talking to?!”

I jump again, bumping into the bookshelf, making Buddha stumble around as he tried not to fall off the shelf. We both straighten up, and I quickly shoot him an apologetic look.

“Uh, mmm, would it be ok if Alex saw you too? I don’t think she’ll believe me if I try to tell her about this. And I don’t know what you wanted to do… or planned for tonight… and, well… would you want to… um…”

“Of course! Bring her in! She is a lovely person, I would greatly enjoy speaking with her. I must meet this young woman who has had such a positive impact on your journey.” He delightedly claps his hands together, smiling beatifically.

I start to go but stop. What if, as soon as I leave he disappears, or turns back into empty ivory? Suddenly a crazy thought pops into my head. Well, why the hell not. I turn back to him and ask, “So, Buddha, want to come to a Halloween party tonight with me and Alex? Since you only have one night a year to really enjoy this world, why not see how we celebrate?”

“Wonderful! I would love to!” He happily exclaims. His voice, though as tiny as he is, still can not hide the rich bass timbre.

“Great! Hey Alex, mind if one more joins our party? I have a feeling you’ll enjoy it!” I call back to Alex.

I hold my hand up to the book shelf, waiting for Buddha to jump on and settle himself down in his pretzel legged-form. Then I head back out into the hallway to show Alex a true Halloween miracle.

 

Meditations on Death

December 8, 2011

 

A. J. Carnaggio

Genevieve

 

I.

I awoke to the sound of a door slamming, exorcising slumber from my person. I sat up erect. The clock read 4:37 AM. I turned my head to the nightstand where the phone sits; there was a message on the answering machine. I listened carefully trying to discern the voice, decoding the sobbing language—grandfather’s tears churning bass notes in my stomach (A, B-flat, C, D-flat…) dark and nauseating, twisting into thick knots of bile and hydrochloric acid, unsettling.

I quickly dressed and made for the stove to fix a cup of tea. I stood there in an empty gaze staring into the pot of water as if it was a crystal ball. I felt myself sliding through the steamy film of vapor, entertaining my pessimism with the worst possible scenarios. What was going on? This or that… When the water came to a boil, I steeped the chamomile teabag into the cup of hot water and made my way for the door.

Outside the air was open and cool; the sun was beginning to rise. I got into my car and flew up my street and onto the expressway—tunnel vision. The roads were empty that morning. My adrenaline was playing a game with the speedometer: how fast could I go? The engine started to growl at me as I crossed 85. “Slow down A.J. Slow down. You have a lead foot Age. You’re going to get a ticket Age.”

When I approached my grandparents’ house no one was home. I called my mother and she told me they were at an emergency room. I get back into the car and head to the hospital. I park the car and head inside. My mother, father, aunt, and uncle come out of a hallway with tears in their eyes and I turn around and run. I run. I ran. I am still running. There was no consciousness. No stream of thought. Noise. Vocal chords vibrate ceaselessly shaking ripping my throat ripping my throat ripping sore red ripping into thoughts of green blades of grass and the wind blowing as grandmother sat in her black metal chair rocking her hair not moving and her pink nails and the Polish slipping from her tongue into letters that she passed on to me in this parking lot thoughtlessly rolling in the gravel screaming.

The sun had risen and the sky was open ether. A new day had just begun.

 

II.

Door slams

Slumber shakes. Erect.

Clock reads 4:37 AM

Head turns

Blue light blinking. Blinking.

Play message. Listen carefully.

Discerning.

Decoding.

Grandfather’s tears.

Bass notes churning inside

Stomach

Dark and nauseating

Twisting

Into

Thick

Knots of

Bile and

Hydrochloric acid

Unsettling.

Dress quickly

Go to stove

Water in pot

Pot on stove

Wait for water to boil

Stand there staring

Empty gaze

Staring into

Pot of water

Like a crystal ball

There I go sliding

I feel myself sliding

Through the

Steamy film of

Vapor

Into a shadowy ghost of

Vapor

A thick, sticky vapor

An ectoplasm.

Water boils. Tea is ready.

Go to door.

Get in car

Begin to drive

Fast

Engine growls

Go through it

And the voices say

Slow down.

Approach the house.

Approach the ER.

Through the glass sliding doors

Mom

Dad

Aunt

Uncle

Grandfather

Tears

Tears

Turn

Run

Tears

Run

Tears

Run

Parking lot

Still running

Fall

Scream

Scream

Scream

Breaking thru

Scream

Breaking thru

Scream

Almost thru

Scream

A little more

Scream

Into blades of green

Wind blows

Visions of grandmother

Rocking in that black chair

Hair-sprayed hair not moving

Polish slips from her tongue

Landing into books

And letters

And journals.

The screaming divides.

Divides into a static world

A static world with no end

A teenager tumblesaulting through memories

Back handspringing into a cartwheel through Broadway Market

Kiełbasa

Chleb

Babka

Czekolada

Pierogi

Pączki

Mmmmm

Front-flip into the future

Stumble and fall to the ground.

An open blue schism

We are left with a new day.

 

 

 

III.

 

I went to work later that day because I had to keep my mind busy. When I walked into work, the strangest emotion had come over me—an emotion I had never felt in the wake of death before: humiliation. Yes, I felt humiliated. That whole day I felt like I was taking the stand in an open courtroom and the whole world was looking at me, gawking pitifully at me as if I was some dog with three legs. I did not want anybody’s pity and I certainly did not want anybody’s sympathy. I now understood that I would never say to someone “Oh my god I’m so sorry,” in the wake of one’s personal tragedy. What I wanted was time to think… to try to comprehend what had happened—I got off work at nine and my mother’s friend who we call “uncle” was at my house waiting for me when I got home, he was instructed to drive me to my grandfather’s house where the rest of my family was. I did not want to go; I went against my will. The whole car ride over there was awful. He drove 55 fucking miles per hour all the way over there and the whole time we talked about nothing. I love my uncle but I was not in the mood to talk that night—Awkward conversation has its place—not there.

When we arrived at my grandfather’s house, I did not want to go inside. I didn’t want to see any of their faces. When I walked in I knew that she was still there—I could feel her. The room was heavy… My consciousness began to boil and overflow with apparitions. Coming and going. Apparitions of children. Little A.J. sitting on the pink carpet fooling around with the yellow and white-sewn coasters. Childlike eyes asking questions that can’t be answered. Grandmother’s coffee sitting on the table in its plastic white cup. Wheel of Fortune. Baseball. Jeopardy. Back and forth back and forth. Father and Mother on the couch. The dreams that I have dreamt on that floral slipcover Grandmother putting a bowl of sliced peaches and ice cream in my hand. The mercurial angst of my adolescence and the stagnant unconditionality of her love. The boiling subsided and the apparitions came to a calming silence in the back of my brain.

My father and my uncle were busy figuring out arrangements for the funeral, while my mother and aunt were upstairs cleaning up my grandmother’s room. Meanwhile, I sat in the living room looking into the faces of my cousins. What was going on in their minds? Their eyes were a glassy pale shade of red staring endlessly into the television. I think we were all just in a state of shock.

When it came time to return home I did not want to leave my grandfather. I had never seen the Patriarch of my family cry until that night. It brought me to my knees. I reluctantly left with my parents and didn’t speak a work on the way home.

That night I laid awake in my bed in disbelief. I closed my eyes and opened my heart to send everything I had to my grandfather.

 

IV.

Every Saturday, from the ages of 13 to 17, I went to the Polish National Alliance on Eastern Avenue to take Polish lessons. My grandmother was so proud of me.

The Polish National Alliance used to be Holy Rosary School, grades K through 8. As young as I was, when I walked through there I felt this translucence… little Stasia skipping and galloping through these halls with her friends, going from class room to class room… my feet walking the same marble floors that she once had… the smell of the dusty auditorium and the worn wooden furniture… the broken and flat piano… the marble staircase sunken in from each passing step from the previous 75 years… sitting at the same desks that all of these immigrant children had… so eager to learn so eager to fit in so eager to make it… their minds fat with the American dream… their skeletons shaken by the dense echoing slap of Sister Mary-whoever’s yard stick.

During whatever family function, my grandmother and I would playfully talk about my father and Uncle in Polish. It was an amusing tradition that initially proved entertaining, but which later served as an outlet I could voice my frustrations to as I approached the later years of my adolescence.

 

V.

The day after she passed I went over to my grandfather’s house. I remember sitting on the couch that day and feeling an emptiness in the room—she was no longer there. That heaviness I had felt just last night had been lifted; it was strange. Everything was in its place just how she had left it: her jewelry on the coffee table, the coaster unmoved, the candy jar still filled with her sugar free candy, the pillows on the chairs just as she had arranged them,  (all of which were made sure to be left undisturbed during last night’s convening).

My grandfather could not open his mouth without his eyes filling up with tears. It was hard to watch and even harder to listen to. I had never heard him refer to my grandmother as his “sweetheart” or his “honey.” The wounds were raw and he was extremely fragile. I sat with him for about an hour and listened to him talk in circles, trying to rationalize, reaching for answers just as I was. The dementia was skipping the broken record of her death inside of his head, playing over and over his account of what happened. And with each recanting of last night’s events my heart broke more and more for this man in front of me.

The sun came through the windows and ignited the room in a sweat-breaking heat. The pink carpet illuminated the room in a rosy fervor of sorrow. The day slipped away as grandfather continued to speak in endless rhizome.

 

VI.

Grandmother always had a strong sense of conviction, when she had an opinion no one could change it. But the way to her heart was always through her grandchildren; we could do no wrong: every argument- one side, every flaw- a perfection. There is a certain unconditionality, which I had mentioned earlier, that exists between grandparent and grandchild that does exist between parent and child, but is more conspicuous and more easily manifested between the former.

When I am next to my sister and my cousins, I can see the effect of this unconditionality: each one of us beams and glows with a specific confidence; it is not arrogance, but rather a self-assurance—a comfortable fitting of our skin… to know that every consequence is the product of our paragon. No—we were not raised in conceit, for we learned humility quite well from our peers and were brought back down to earth very quickly. But what has been instilled in the back of our minds is a notion of shamelessness—a glory.

 

Long live this glory. Long live you, my child.

 

Kanary Mines

December 8, 2011

 

Nick Kanary

 

The tiny creatures took flight in the depth of the night, leaving their homes behind. Quietness pervades the air; there are no sounds except for the dull beating of wings. A gentle wind causes naked tree branches to creak and sway, creating interesting shadows against buildings with the help of the moon’s illumination. But despite the pale yellow glow, the darkness was too much for the creatures to handle. Combined with their already poor eyesight, they had very little control over the direction they took.

The creatures move in a massive group, creating an even larger creature that seems to have a mind of its own. The potential protection that this gives to each member is outweighed by the fact that each creature is at the mercy of every other one flying in front of it. The mass moves gracefully between manmade structures, morphing into different shapes while still maintaining a cohesive form. However, the leader at the front of the floating cluster of creatures suddenly loses its bearings and realizes it is about to fly directly into the side of a house.

In a fearful panic, it drastically shifts its direction and glides upward, with the entire flock following close behind. The change momentarily saves the group, but the leader is utterly disoriented. In its confusion, it guides them all straight for the ground. In the style of Japanese kamikazes, the creatures begin their descent downward. Spiraling out of control, the group smashes directly into the cement. The birds pelt the hard surface and suffer instant death.

Wait. That’s not how it happened.

Edges of clouds were illuminated by the yellow glow of the moon. A distant rumble had awoken the creatures in the middle of a deep slumber. Without warning, a storm was upon them. It began with a crackle of thunder and then a bright flash that momentarily gave the illusion of daytime. This was followed by a few heavy drops of rain. Then a downpour began drenching their feathers. They took flight in search for a safe, dry place to wait out the storm.

They noticed that the drops of rain began solidifying. The droplets were bad enough – they struck birds and for a second would leave them dazed. But this was nothing compared to the chunks of ice that were now pelting each member of the flock. Just as with the rain, the hail started off light. But it quickly began doing unrecoverable damage to the birds. The flock attempted to stay cohesive, but with each passing second another member was getting knocked out of the sky by a solid droplet of the sky’s tears. Before much time passed, the flock’s numbers were diminished down to zero.

The area seemed like a warzone. Thousands of birds lay dead in the streets, yards, and rooftops as a result of blunt force trauma. There was nothing they could have done. They were forced from their home and in the process of trying to find a safe haven they were struck down.

Hold on. That’s not exactly it.

The creatures were nesting in the trees. A gentle swaying of the barren branches did nothing to disrupt their path to sleep. They rested with their families in a warm bed composed of twigs and other assorted items. This night was like any other winter night. The air was chilling but sleeping in a huddle formation warded off the cold. Sounds of the town died down as time progressed. Just when the last few creatures had fallen asleep, the explosions began.

Starbursts of red, white, and blue lit up the sky. Despite seeming so close, there seemed to be no origin of these strange invaders, as if they appeared out of thin air. The booms echoed off of every suburban home, like an invisible giant was using them as his drum. With every explosion came screams and cheers from a mass of people that appeared out of the darkness. With every explosion the peaceful silence that had once existed was further destroyed. Unfortunately, the creatures were situated at the epicenter of this chaos. They were awakened from their slumber in a startled panic. Without thinking, their natural instincts kicked in and they took flight.

In their disorientation, thousands of birds flew even closer to the focus of the explosions. The cloud of tiny creatures remained cohesive despite its collective confusion. Their senses were overloaded. A loud BOOM, then a burst of bright light, then screaming. Fear gripped their hearts and their body functions began to fail. The backdrop was a scene of American-colored explosions as the birds fell silently from the sky.

Never mind. I got it all wrong.

The creatures had finally settled down in their nests. As sleep’s grip began to take hold over each one, the creatures began to stir in the trees. Slowly they awakened at the improper time. Their insides began to burn and intense jabbing pains sent many into fits of pain and agony. The berries that they had all eaten earlier in the day were being regurgitated in the same place where they slept. Their bodies were rejecting the earth’s natural cuisine, tainted by man.

Earlier that day, a businessman had taken pesticide and thrown it all over his yard. The tiny yellow warning sign placed neatly at the front of the brown patch of dead grass did nothing to warn non-humans of the poison that lay beneath. The overhanging tree that the creatures called their home had dropped its berries in this patch of dead grass the day before. After the poison was applied, the creatures gladly ate to their hearts’ content.

Without even realizing it, the birds were now paying the consequences of eating tainted food. Little birds watched helplessly as their parents were slowly eaten away at from the inside out. Their natural bodily reactions to foreign substances were not enough to save them. The poison crept up to their brains in some cruel torturous game where the last organ to be attacked was the one that perceived the pain. When it was finally over, the majority of the decimated population laid strewn across the lawns of the suburban neighborhood, while their offspring cried for their parents to return to their nests.

Scratch that. My sources were incorrect.

The countryside had been pierced by a massive metal pipeline that extended directly through the town. A small hole had been created by the poisonous contents of the pipe over time. The gas began escaping from the pipe and into the surrounding environment. It travelled invisibly and silently, escaping its prison and being willfully manipulated by the wind. It was carried though the air without a care in the world, as it had nowhere to be.

At this particular time, a flock of creatures happened to be making its way through the town. As the creatures flew in formation, they collided with the gas and unknowingly inhaled unhealthy amounts of it. Seeing as the gas was undetectable to these creatures, the day progressed normally. However, once enough time had gone by, the poison began slowly eating away at the insides of the creatures.

The group was flying over a residential neighborhood when the birds began dying off one by one. It started with just one – its wings simply stopped fluttering and it fell from the sky like a fallen angel. The unexplained death of a few members of the flock wasn’t enough to halt its progression through the air, so it continued on. But what was a small problem quickly became a pandemic as dozens of birds suddenly began dropping from the sky. The remaining few members of a once glorious fleet continued on to a new life of rebuilding a population while their brethren rotted on the ground due to a bad dose of contaminated air.

I made all of that up. This last story is correct.

The creatures huddled together in their nests for warmth in the cold of winter. The sky had begun dropping a coat of pristine snow over the landscape overnight. This latest bout of cold weather meant hunger for the little creatures, who had no ability to find food in such harsh conditions. It also meant sickness for their flock because their immune systems were becoming weaker and couldn’t fight off a simple virus, let alone the bird flu.

The disease found its way into the little colony and began with only a few weaker creatures. Despite the quietness of its entry, it quickly picked up steam and spread to progressively stronger members of the tribe. While the snow continued to dampen any chance of survival, the infection continued to get passed around to different groups within the flock, a population that spanned across a good number of barren trees.

Now that the flu had infected each member of the flock, devastation was unavoidable. The flu wasted no time in heading straight for the head. Air sacs inside of each of their skulls were inflated until their bodies couldn’t handle the internal pressure any further. Perched on tree branches, the creatures gave each other a dramatic look, as if it was their last.

One by one, the birds began to explode. Their guts splattered all over their comrades. Those left alive for a short while were stuck in a state of shock not only at the sight of their dead friends but also at the fact that they were drenched in their innards. When it was all over, the field was littered with the carnage left behind from spontaneously exploding birds.

Forget it, I made that up. Now here is the truth.

 

Emogene

December 8, 2011

 

Carolyn Brown

I pulled myself up on a rock and began to trace the jagged scar running down my fishtail, a battle wound from the night when my fins had gotten caught in a motor boat propeller. A fisherman had grabbed my arm and tried to pull me onto the deck, but I bit his leg with my piranha fangs and escaped, my own blood clouding the water behind me. The blades had sliced through my protective layer of scales and exposed skin as tender as a molten crab underneath. Over time, the gash began to scab and toughen up, but the scales never grew back over the wounded area, leaving me with a permanent memory of my close-to-death experience.

“Things aren’t so simple anymore,” I bent down to grab a tangle of seaweed floating on the waves and began to place the slippery strands over my scar.

I glanced up to notice a girl walking along the shore; she was zipping her wind-breaker over her tie-dye sundress. A breeze blew back her auburn hair, exposing her freckled cheeks and upturned nose. I gently slid back into the water and peeked out from behind the boulder.

I cringed when I spotted the dog with golden-brown fur trotting along behind her. They were disgusting land-creatures who left filth on the beach that eventually was caught by the waves and pulled back into the ocean. I couldn’t forget the time when I was chased by a Labrador retriever…I frantically darted through the waves trying to pull my tail away from his snapping jaws. I sighed in relief when a whistle rang out from a beach house and the dog began to bound towards his owner, a woman with straw-colored hair tied back into a ponytail.

“Emogene! Are you coming in?” the woman called out to the girl.

Emogene picked up a silver of quahog clam from the beach and placed it into her pocket before hollering back “In a minute, Mom!”

A fine rain started to drizzle down, but Emogene was still combing through the sand with her fingers, looking for colored pebbles and bits of shell. The mother stood at the door, her arms crossed over her chest and her mouth puckered in annoyance.

Finally, Emogene’s mother rolled her eyes and disappeared back into the house, shouting “Fine! Don’t blame me if you catch a cold!”

Emoegene scrunched up her nose and muttered before tossing a stone across the water as hard as she could. I ducked behind the boulder as a reflex, but then I couldn’t help but glance up again and smirk impishly at the girl.

“How very interesting,” I thought to myself and inched a little closer towards the beach.

The waves were becoming choppier and I swayed roughly with the current, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. Emogene ran her toes through the sand and then started to climb a boulder on the edge of the shore.

“Ah, I see,” I thought. “The grit on her feet is traction against the slippery surface.”

I would have never thought of that clever invention (because I didn’t have feet of my own, of course.) Still, it was hard to hoist myself up onto boulders because my heavy tail weighed me down…and my scales were so slimy that I often tumbled off and fell backwards into the water. Humans had no idea how convenient it was to move on a pair of bendable limbs!

Suddenly, a wave knocked the girl off her perch and she fell onto the jagged rocks buried into the sand. She cried out sharply in pain and clutched her shoulder, streams of blood trickled through her fingers.

I cringed in disgust and was about to dive into the water and swim back to my underwater grotto…but then I placed my hand over the slight bulge of my stomach and smiled knowingly.

“No, the girl may be of some use to me,” I whispered before gliding towards the shore, gathering up pieces of seaweed along the way.

Emogene squinted in the distance, picking out the sight of a head bobbing in the waves…but then her eyes widened in shock when she noticed that a long, slender fish tail trailed behind it.

I let the waves carry me and I landed gently onto the shore, close enough to reach out and grab Emogene by the wrist. She struggled to break free, but I just tightened my grip.

“Hold still,” I pulled her arm towards me and ran a webbed finger across the scab; she winced but stopped trying to wriggle out of my grasp. Her chest heaved and she stared hard at the gills unfurling at the nape of my neck. I pulled out a strip of seaweed and began to wrap it around her shoulder.

“You’re welcome,” I smirked.

Emogene stammered, grazing the makeshift bandage with the tips of her fingers “What did you do that for?”

“If I got to do something for you…you got to do something for me.”

Emogene snatched her hand back “Why should I owe you anything?”

“Why are you so suspicious? Haven’t you heard stories about my kind?” I crooned.

She seemed to soften slightly “Yes…my grandmom said that she saw a mermaid at this beach…when she was a little girl. I didn’t even believe her.”

“Let me look at that cut again,” I said cupping my hand around her shoulder and studying the casting…blood was seeping through the cracks of the seaweed. “At least the wound will be moisturized. It’s just a scrape, so you won’t have to worry about any scarring.”

“So, what is it that I have to do for you?” Emogene asked.

I coiled my fingers around her wrist and murmured in a lullaby tone “Do you know what human babies need from their mothers for nourishment?”

“Milk of course,” she raised her eyebrow, puzzled.

“Aren’t you the clever one,” I purred, stroking her arm. “Unfortunately, I’m not a mammal and I cannot produce milk for my young.”

“Are you going to have a baby?” Emogene’s voice was beginning to drift off into a sleepy monotone.

“Yes, for the first time, actually,” leading her closer towards me. “I haven’t seen a merman in centuries…but one was migrating south and we happened to run into each other.”

“Uh, hmmm…” Emogene slurred.

“He wasn’t that good-looking…his face was bloated like a puffer fish,” I said grimacing at the memory. “Though it’s our duty to carry on our own endangered species…whether we like it or not.”

I began to gradually slide backwards until we were close enough to the shoreline for the waves to swoop around us, drenching the girl’s clothes…though she didn’t seem to notice. Her navy eyes were as clouded as sea-glass, gazing far off into the distance.

“Do you have any idea how long it takes for a mermaid child to be born, my sweet?” I whispered into her ear.

This time, Emogene only mumbled gently to herself, her voice almost completely faded away.

“I just conceived this baby ten years ago…and I will have to wait much longer, still,” I laughed silvery. “It might even take a century…I really don’t much care for it, but I can’t turn back now.”

I drew back my lips, sliding my fangs over the nape of Emogene’s neck. Her skin was so tender that my teeth easily pierced through. I began to lap up the hot blood with my tongue.

I licked away the salty-sweet syrup from my mouth and said “I need to get a taste of human blood as often as I can…nourishment for both me and my child.”

I should have noticed the flicker of recognition in Emogene’s eyes, but I was too busy leaning in her another bite, singing “Mother’s sweet milk.”

Suddenly, she twisted out from underneath me and crawled away backwards “Get off of me!”

“You little brat,” I hissed

Emogene kicked sand into my face as she scrambled to stand up, but her legs kept giving out from underneath her. I grabbed her foot, but she wrenched it away and bolted for her house.

I shot a seething glare in her direction, but she was already out of sight.

“Humans,” I growled underneath my breath.