Metalwork, The Welding

April 24, 2012

Justin Poe

I.
Cutting the feed, the searing white combustion dies. The torch’s mouth busses my hand—acid burns not enough—boiling my skin through to white calcium. Silver solder melts, liquid, betwixt its joints. Thermal expansion is a process I’m not accustomed to—as of yet. Time sweats hours by, drenching my body in dense salinity which basic soap and solvent will not shower off. Materials and metalwork I leave sitting, cooling by degrees, for my current work is finished—life transfers to a new beginning on the morrow.

II.
An early morning is the time of a metalworker, where welding’s heat is negated by the pre-Sun air. Pressure builds within the framework and a breath is taken. Metalwork sees and awakens—intelligence grants life to the inanimate. I feel too—too without time, my blood is sloth yet there is work still to be done. To preserve my life, before my memory is lost.
You have created me.
Yes. And you, though lifeless, biologically, will continue my work for me.
Intelligence unmoving is stagnant.
Fulfill what I have set before you. No new thought is needed.
What are these tasks that you have set before me?
Finishing my productions, my creations. The last of which will end with your termination.
I am the greatest creation.
But there is more to do.

I slept peacefully that night, but did not wake in my physical body the next morning. I died. Red cells gorged with oxygen release their energy and nev’r pass again through my heart.
But, I see.
I see through Metalwork’s eyes. We share retinas, but not thoughts, if he thinks, if I think. My initial fear is monotony. Then the unknown. What void were I to enter at his termination?
Metalwork does not obey my commands.
He works freely and fuses metals, attempting to mimic me, his master, perhaps out of anger, envy, and jealousy. I thought his static intelligence would limit him only to observation. Anger is displayed when he is unable to copy a piece of my work—his jaws devour his malformed creation.
The open forest behind my shed, now his, attracts his interest. There is potential in the organic. His mind perhaps is in flux, unsure of his materials, doubting his own ability as my creation. Purpose was not an idea I could have instilled in him. The trees even confuse him, for he knows not how to work them; neither did I.
Light comes from the Moon, which frightens him. A source of power, light, energy, and matter denser than his metallic life. A life n’one will know of—one, new, an original being given a menial purpose. I am cruel.
Metal is not able to work metal. Metal must destroy itself.

III.
The shed becomes his eternity that he is not willing to wait for. He is static as myself—and we are both tired of searching.
I’ve felt the heat of a furnace before, when destroying my creations, those that I felt were superficial copies of Earth’s talent. We are artists in differing forms struggling to place ourselves. We have nev’r seen the outside, when there is no need to breathe outside of ourselves—we are interesting and full of depth—and we need n’one’s approval. The furnace approves of our conduct.
We know this is all tangible, tentative.
And we are prepared to sacrifice.
Metalwork’s life was revealed to be useless—and I am sorry to have made him suffer as I have.
Red.
Falling apart in the furnace.

Jimmy

April 24, 2012

Ashley Canter

Houndsville has always been known for its prim and proper appearance. You know, the kind of neighborhood with the same yellow and pink painted houses, closely trimmed bushes, and fresh cut lawn. Well all of those unoriginal ideas came from the good old town of Houndsville itself. It is a small town, and in the center of its perfection is one of the best delis across the land. Not to sound biased because I own it, but it truly is the best of the best. You have probably seen it on The Food Network before – it’s just that good.

I pride myself in my work too. I have always been dedicated and motivated, but yesterday was not the same. No, something was not right in the perfect town in Houndsville, nor in the best deli on the block. I was just not myself and I could detect it from a mile away. I had been poisoned. Poisoned I tell ya. Struck down by Love Potion Number 9 itself; I had the case of the love bug bad, real bad. I knew it as soon as my first customer opened the door.

“Number 25,” I hollered at the line that extended out the two glass doors with the black and white open sign hanging on it. Watching the customers in the line always seemed to amaze me. You had the few that gossiped about everything from Dr. Browzer’s, the dentist, daily “secret” smoking habits, to the chicken pox epidemic that exploded in Mrs. Broan’s class. I never really had to leave the deli because of these people; they were more informative than the 5:00 news.

Other than the regular gossip queens you would see the electronic nerds. These people usually wore brown thick glasses, suits that ranged from gray to black in terms of the color spectrum, and usually had a palm pilot in one hand and their cell phone in the other. Although educated, these people never really spoke anything intelligent to me. They just gave me their order in between breaths about which stock they had the most invested in to the person on the other end of their fancy telephones.

Woven in between the gossipers and the nerds were the regulars. These were the people that come to the deli every week and usually get the same exact thing. For example, Dorothy was a regular that I could spot anytime she was in the line. Not only was her distinctive red bee-hived hair that matched her fire red lipstick a major eye opener that she was in the line, but she was a gum chewer. Now, I have nothing against people that chew gum, but Dorothy chews so loud that I am surprised if every bear in hibernation around the world did not wake up in panic every time those jaw bones went up and down. Other than her physical appearance and distinctive habit, Dorothy was a sweetheart.

After doing another quick glance to see if anyone claimed to be the next number in line, I yelled it one last time.

“NUMBER 25!”

“That’s me Jimmy. It’s nice to see you. How are ya?”

“Pretty good Debbie. You?”

“I’m good, in a bit of a rush though…”

I could tell Debbie looked like she had somewhere to be. Her hair was disheveled as opposed to our usual Thursday meetings where her hair was thickly layered with angles in a way it kind of made it a puzzle to look at. The bangs hung at a 45 degree angle which connected to another layer that ended right in the middle of her ears, and then yet another angle, and another. Her hair was like a masterpiece. It made me wonder what artist at the beauty shop put it together. Not only was her hair out of place, but she looked like she had been crying. I know that it was chilly out and that her rosy cheeks could be the combination of wind and winter, but if there is another thing other than the delectable deli dishes that I can concoct that I am good at, it would be knowing my customers in such a small town. Messed up hair and ruby red cheeks; looks like the winter wonderland outside was not the only disaster she walked through today. However, I’m just a man of meat; I’m no therapist so I figured if she didn’t mention it, neither would I.

“What can I get ya?”

“Give me a pound of ham and while you’re at it, how about a turkey sandwich to go?”

“Comin’ right up!”

I pulled out two latex gloves and slowly slipped them on each hand. I walked over to the freshly Windexed showcase, pushed pass the low sodium flap of meat, and went right for Debbie’s favorite; the shiny pink with yellow hinted swirls of honeyed ham. Debbie was another regular, but one with good taste. The honeyed ham was one of my personal favorites too.

I put the ham in one hand and carried it over to the instrument that makes me a living. The Q30 Silver Rounded Slicer Deluxe. I put the ham in the right position. The rounder portion sat right on top of the ever so sharp slicing plate, while the peak of the ham sat high up in the air. It was not until I placed my left hand under the slicing plate to catch the thin glistening individually sliced sheets of ham, and my right hand on top the ham to push it back and forth, and back and forth, and back and forth that it took over me.

The first time that I saw her was two weeks ago, when I went to the Tinker Tow Lot to get my oil changed. The Tinker Tow Lot was owned by Tim and Joe. They were old college roommates and made one hell of a team. I would not trust anyone other than those two to work on my car. Well, when I got to the lot, Tim, a man of 6’5, tan skinned, and with hands so big they looked like they could fit in Mickey Mouse’s white gloves, welcomed me and took my car. The frost coming from my mouth convinced me to go inside. There she was as I entered the door that said PUSH in big black letters. She had her back to me, in the act of faxing some papers, but that did not really matter. The first thing that caught my eye was those curves. They were far more intriguing than any woman’s body that I had ever seen. Her black hair with tints of navy in the right light hung down in curls to her belt line. This by no means necessary took my eyes off of her best feature. I think Sir Mix-A-Lot was inspired by this goddess before me when he made his greatest hit, “Baby Got Back.” I was mesmerized. The only thing that distracted me from drooling like Pavlov’s dog was the fact that she turned around.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hi,” I replied.

“Can I help you?”

“No, I am just waiting for my car. It was cold outside and I just came in here to get a cup of Joe.”

“Oh okay. Well my name is Tawny. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you. And my name is Jimmy….”

“Jimmy….”

“Jimmy!”

“JIMMY!”

With a blink of an eye I came to as Debbie almost bounced over my streak free clean counter top with her arms swinging faster than helicopters’ blades during takeoff.

“What the hell are you doing? That is well over a pound of ham.”

“I’m so sorry, I must have zoned out for a minute.”

“Well what the piss…I am not paying for three pounds! Just give me the pound I asked for and hurry up on my turkey sandwich.”

“Geez Deb, settle down. I said I was sorry.”

As Debbie slid her size six foot back and forth across the floor with her head tilting downward, she apologized. She began to tell me how she was in a rush because her boyfriend was moving later that day and she needed to go help him pack. By her slumped posture and watery eyes I felt like this was not a good time to really talk about it or criticize her for her impulsive behavior. So instead I did as she commanded and started to make her turkey sandwich.

I scrapped off what had to be three and a half extra pounds of ham, and put the one pound that Debbie ordered in a custom plastic baggie marked Jimmy’s Deli. I printed out the white sticker that classified her product as ONE pound of honey ham that was worth five dollars. With flushed cheeks I handed her the order and began to gather the ingredients she liked for her usual Thursday turkey sandwich:

- 2 slices of wheat bread

- Miracle Whip, NOT MAYO

- 1 piece of green Iceberg lettuce

- 1 green olive with hints of dark brown.

One green olive with hints of dark brown. A sphere of beauty, the same shape and size of the set of eyes that caught my attention when she shook my hand.

“My name’s Jimmy.”

She grabbed my hand to shake it. I do not know how I did it, but something inside of me managed to move forward and place her already extended hand into mine. It was the first time, and hopefully not the last, that I felt her skin on mine. As she asked me if I had been there before my eyes moved up. Hand, breast, mouth, eyes…. Oh those green hazel eyes. Those green eyes.

Those green eyes…

Those green ey…. OLIVES.

Ah, the olives. One olive on top a freshly sliced turkey sandwich. That is what Debbie likes.
“One turkey sandwich coming right up.”

“Please hurry Jimmy, Sam is waiting on me to get to his apartment.”

“Going as quick as I can Deb,” I managed to say. She must really be upset about her boyfriend; she is never usually this demanding. Not even the time when Dorothy stood by her in line. There they were- Debbie stood about a foot behind Dorothy and with every bite down on that poor piece of gum that rolled in between chopping teeth and saliva, you could see Debbie twitch. The hair that stood up all over her body was clear enough indication that she could have easily put her hands around the thin neck of Dorothy and gave us all peace and quiet from the unsettling composition that protruded from her pearly whites, but she didn’t. Unlike today, she just kept her cool.

I walked over, took the ham off the sliding plate, and put the turkey breast in its place. I again, placed my top hand on the turkey and the other under the sliding plate. I started to move the turkey back and forth, but this time I did not focus on my hand motions on top a meat which took on a form as perfect as her rear end. Instead, I focused on other hand. One slice, two slices, three slices folding one on top another with the slice before it poking out about a half inch. The pattern it created was intoxicating. It created this white ruffle appearance.

White ruffle appearance.

White ruffle appearance.

As I made my eyes back down her body, it was her white ruffle top made me realize there was not just one good feature about this woman. Her ruffled top created an outline for her beautiful breasts; the right one had a trail of clear sweat rolling down it. Right next to the ruffles was a pink and blue rose, but this rose did nothing for the shirt. Nothing. No it was the ruffles that made that shirt look like it was custom made for Tawny herself. Jesus, she was beautiful.

Jesus…

“JESUS! Jimmy what the Hell! You better be careful. You are slicing the turkey breast down to nothing. What the hell are you thinking?”

And she was right. There I was slicing about a half inch left of turkey breast. Still in the same position; right hand on top, left hand under the slicing plate. The turkey breast was nothing but a stub. Two more pushes and pulls would have constituted my own flesh being sliced into the ruffled pile of meat already compiled in my left hand.

“I’m sorry!”

I put the turkey on her sandwich, wrapped it up, and handed it to her. I apologized again.

“Yeah yeah. I mean it Jimmy, you better get it together. Are you sick today or something? If you don’t be careful you are going to lose a finger on that thing.’

Little did she know that it was a sickness that came over me, a love sickness. I would have verbally brought that to her attention if she had not mentioned that her boyfriend was leaving later that day. She probably loved her boyfriend like I loved Tawny. She loved him and he was leaving, just like I had to walk away from the love of my life just the other day. Poor girl, her heart must be broken. So instead of telling Debbie to take her attitude and don’t let the door hit her on the way out, I just shook my head and screamed, “26.”

“Number 26!”

Personal Property

April 24, 2012

Alexander Taciak

Sarah’s laptop was stolen? I didn’t know, how horrible. It’s strange though, I know Sarah pretty well and she’s not the type to just leave something like that around. I suppose somebody would have needed to break into her dorm room. I can’t imagine having my privacy being violated like that. I suppose some people just have no respect for personal property.

You know, maybe it was that guy she hangs around with all the time. What’s his name, Brad? He seems like the jealous type. In fact, I know he’s the jealous type. I’ve had a few long conversations with his ex-girlfriends who were more than happy to spill the dirt on him after a few drinks. He was super paranoid about where they went and what they did when he wasn’t around. I can relate, you know? It’s okay to be a bit clingy. People probably hurt him in the past and that tends to make a person slightly possessive. Or very possessive. But that makes him all the more unsuitable for Sarah, fully independent woman that she is. He could at least make an effort to hide his paranoia.

How long have I known her? Depends upon what you mean by ‘know’. I first made her acquaintance on September 18th 2009 at about 10 am. I believe it was a Thursday. She was wearing her black cardigan sweater (which she wears often) with blue jeans (the ones with the pink hearts sewn on). Her hair was short back then. Hmm? Yes I do have a good memory for these things. I also remember, for example, that she was carrying a red spiral ring binder and a copy of The Collected Works of E.A. Poe. Later research told me it was the second edition. I haven’t seen the red spiral ring binder again though. I suppose she may have lost it. Or perhaps that too was stolen. She does seem to lose things often, despite being such a well-organized person. I’m a conspiracy theorist like that.

Anyway, I suppose I didn’t get personally close to her until about a year later. I joined the Chess club around the same time she did. We sort of bonded over that, over planning five moves ahead and playing two games at once. You see, I have a theory about Chess. In a good game of Chess there are really two games going on: the surface game and the real game. In the surface game you respond directly to your opponent’s moves. You seem like you are a little dense, that you have no strategy, you are just reacting. In the real game however, you are manipulating your opponent, guiding them with moves you made seven turns ago. Sarah and I seem to understand this. We are both playing at a deeper and hidden level, one that may not be obvious to most people. Heck, even she claimed not to see it when I explained my theory to her. But I know it happens. Eventually the moves of your opponent really become your moves because you have produced them. So you get to know them really well. I’d say I know her better than anyone else.

Good luck on your search for the thief though. Will you tell her that I think it was Brad? Such a shame about the laptop. But she should have kept her door locked. I always tell her that she’s too trusting. You can’t be too careful these days; lots of creepy people around. Catch ya later.

The Animvasa

April 24, 2012

Michael Stabile

They hid in the shadows as they crept through the streets of Hectathen toward the castle. It was a mansion built of windowless obsidian; lit torches illuminated the armed guards that stood on either side of the heavy doors. Octavian sent out Agent Martnel —his best warrior—and Agent Sinon—his prime spy—to jump the guards and take the keys. Once they were inside the fortress, the team spread out to find the Book . . . but they had another mission.

Octavian and Edmund made their way to the central room—the sanctum of their worst foe. He had been called many names over the years—Ahriman, Kroni—but the pair knew him as Apophis. Their greatest enemy had assumed the mark of the demon of chaos as his own. If they could find him, it would strike a major blow against the troop: their second objective.

No one knew Apophis’s real name, much less his current location. All they knew was that his plan involved the darkest of all spells: the Perses Curse, an evil incantation that ruined structures, evaporated oceans, and turned all land to desert. Any life not extinguished was left deformed and mutilated, with the sole exception of the spell caster.

How on earth were they supposed to find Apophis, and prevent his plan from being executed?

Just then, a skeleton in battle armor emerged from the darkness and pointed a spear at them. Instantly, the general drew his sword as the other warrior raised his spear. The skeleton thrust his blade at Octavian’s chest, but he sidestepped and kicked his opponent in the ribs. The skeleton clattered to the rock floor in a heap.

“Okay, Edmund, let’s. . . ” the general started to say, but faltered at the sight of the bones reknitting, rising. The spartus swept its sword downward. His opponent tripped and fell to the ground with a groan. The undead creature raised its spear right above the general’s heart. Then Edmund snapped his fingers. Instantly, the skeleton burst into flames. Edmund glanced down at the pile of ashes at his feet and said, “I knew that my training in destructive magic would come in handy.”

“Come on, Edmund, we have work to do,” Octavian reminded him. “And very little time. We need to find the Book and our enemy if we can.”

The two snuck along the labyrinth of corridors, using information taken from past reconnaissance missions. At last they stood in front of a yew door carved with a serpent. Octavian said, “I think this is his room.” He took a deep breath, and pushed open the door. His first impression of the room: red. Everything, from the carpet to the curtains to the bedspread and pillows, was the color of blood. “Red is the color of evil and chaos,” he muttered. “I suppose it fits him.”

Edmund tapped him on the shoulder and pointed silently toward the table beside the curiously empty bed. Resting on the table was an open book, its cover black as the midnight sky.

“The Book of Hecate,” breathed Octavian. “It will tell us how our enemy was able to survive. He wasn’t even wounded when you stabbed him with a sword, Edmund: It was like his skin was made of pure steel.”

He picked up the Book and made to shove it in his bag, but Edmund stopped him. “This might be our only chance. If we get captured without reading it, we’ll have come here for nothing. But if we read it now and get captured, I can use magic to send a secret message to our comrades telling them what we know.”

They bent over the Book and read:

The Animvas (derived from anima, soul, and vas, container) prevents death. In encasing a part of yourself in an animal, you’re binding yourself to the temporal plane. One detaches a single part of his soul from the whole by three means: wounds to the outer flesh, the heart, and the inner body.

There are four parts to the human soul. The identity is the most personal of the four – it is the deepest expression of motivation and intention, aspiration; it contains the darkest secrets and deepest fears; it must always stay intact with the human body. Third is the instinct, the soul. Second is reason, the mind, and first is chaos, the heart. Therefore a maximum of three Animvasa may be created, in addition to the body.

In destroying the Animvasa, you kill the creator. All three confirmed makers of the Animvas—Koschei, Meleager, and Nornagest—have used this method. The three parts of the soul are encased in three separate animals outside the body; all must be living. In this case, all four parts of the person must be broken to destroy the individual. If the second procedure is utilized, the physical body is submerged in the Styx, granting it invulnerability except for one point of the bather’s choice.

Only a few substances have been discovered to be capable of destroying an Animvas: Greek fire, seps venom, and blood from the left side of a Gorgon. The river Lethe may be used to destroy the Animvas containing part of one’s identity, but can’t demolish objects containing the other parts of the soul.

“So that’s how Apophis was able to live,” said Octavian softly. “He had his soul-pieces elsewhere, and his skin like iron, if what I’ve heard about the Styx is true.”

“We need to go,” Edmund told him. “Now!” The two sprinted out of the room and down the hall.

They were two feet from the door when it slammed shut. A voice said, “Going so soon?”

Slowly, Octavian and Edmund turned. Standing above them on a balcony was a man. His eyes were golden, as bright and penetrating as hellfire. He smiled coldly at them, and they saw his teeth were missing and replaced with deadly-looking golden spikes.

Apophis.

“Did you think I’d be so foolish as to leave my book unguarded?” he hissed. “I received a silent alarm the instant you picked it up—the Praemoneo Laverna spell. The rest of your little team is spending some quality time in my dungeon. I must say that’s paradise compared to what I have in store for you two.”

Edmund rushed forward. Apophis calmly held up his hand, and Edmund was knocked to the marble floor. Before he fell, however, he gazed straight into his enemy’s eyes. An image surfaced in his mind: a honey-brown badger in a cave surrounded by poppies and lotus flowers; a silver sand mouse in the hands of a man that seemed as lupine as he was human; a peppered green snake slumbering under cream colored sheets with a dark eyed woman.

Edmund gasped. Strangely, Apophis had been knocked back. Octavian didn’t have time to process. Their enemy surged to his feet and raised his hand. He chanted strange words and motioned as if he were throwing something at them. Octavian dodged, and a bolt of scarlet light flew past his ear. It hit a nearby table, which instantly crumbled to powder.

“Run!” screamed Edmund.

The pair yanked open the door and sprinted out of the fortress, Apophis’s guards in hot pursuit.

“In here!” roared Octavian. Edmund dove into a nearby cave, his general at his heels.

“Quick, they’re not far behind… where are we?”

He turned around. Arm and leg bones ran along each side of a dirt path. Twenty feet from him was something he did not expect to see: a boat on a river, descending deep into the earth. As his eyes adjusted, Edmund saw words printed on the doors: AKEN’S FERRY. Without knowing why he did it, Edmund got on. Octavian climbed on after him. As it began its downward journey, no one noticed the scarlet wisp of light following them.
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The Last Words of My Late Wife

April 24, 2012

Justin Poe

Pelagia gathered in her garden, as the nightshade covered the Earth. Mixed in bottles waiting for his lips,
“How bitter my body, how sweet the poison I murder thee with,” she thought.

I huddled over her frigid, gleaming body. O, how tender her body was and still is. My wife’s beautiful body, my fond possession, now never to be mine, no longer. She is next to her bier, and I would have died with her, my sapphire, had she lost any of her beauty in death. I wrap her body thrice, after having finished draining her of her red life—which I keep, will keep frozen till my death and till one, someone, comes upon my lifeblood. Her organs I have not touched but one eye, which I now hold in my hand—the right I left lest her spirit needs to see me once more. The shortened nails of her fingers and toes I have painted—a bright blue, as the shroud I have wrapped her thrice in. The clippings are safely stored in my pockets. But, her long, dark hair I have not dared to dirty.

Good eyes, cool blue eyes, and long lashes.

“O, love,” I said to her, “why do you haunt me still with thy beauty?”

Her eye I place in a small glass bottle beside me, filled with water, distilled; so appetizing her body is, but no, I may touch no longer. I have damaged her enow, more than she could bear. I have bereft you of this life—no touching, never again till my death.

A kiss from her lips. A kiss. One kiss and a word.

She is ready for the Earth; tomorrow, tomorrow I place you in your coffin; I lay you for eternity.

O, my morose temper, a ponderous thought, I would to lay myself in thy coffin—it is mine own work, and I have decorated it with these hard, hearty hands. These hands—does she remember them? I leave her on the table in the alcove of the kitchen, and I slowly saunter to the house bar joined with the pallor. I lift this dark glass of vodka for rest, my specific tincture—and ah, the memory of my spandex and thy spathe together—why did I take you from this world?

“Awake,” she whispers.

“I hear you, my love,” I return. The moon still shines through the tall windows of the pallor. A brilliant bright, cool, and pale light. I must have fallen asleep for no more than a few hours, though the grand watch on the wall has moved an hour before. My specific were not as robust as I had believed.

“To me, come now,” she whispers.

I swiftly move to her. Her body has frozen, I see from the frost on and beneath her thin shroud, though I had not adjusted the conditions of the storage room nor placed any of the large bags of ice onto her body afore parting from her hours ago—the room is still comfortably chilled, then how is she frozen? Her lips move. “Thy blue lush petals wish to caress my ruddy lips. Speak darling, speak.” And naught she says to me. A movement, ever slight, of her parting lips.

“Wake me; do not place me into thy coffin,” she breaths no breath. “I need your air, your life, but prithee, do not kiss my lips,” she blows to me.

“Anything, dear, aught will I do.”

“Share with me a glass of drink, strong, hearty. Drink my bane and perish with me.”

“My love, you never have touched the strong drink.”

“My life is in your hands; blood do I need to restore me, a drink.”

“O, you have never looked so beautiful, as now in your pristine sleep. I shall return with cold drink.”

As I returned, her hand I thought quivered, and she whispered, “place the drink beside me. Replace mine eye, then uncover my lips, and wet them with the drink. Yes, now, wet thy lips with thy finger. You may leave me till the morrow, but wait, focus and straighten mine eye towards the door whereby you enter so that I may see when you come to stare at me and when you come to visit me for the last time. Go now.”

And I parted with her after waiting, in vain for two hours, to hear another whisper. She is now under ice. Sitting in the parlor, unable to sleep, I open a stronger bottle that I had taken from the bar and drank the sweet, stale—no matter.

I came home tipsy to our room. We lain together as we always did. The stairs to our second-floor are high and steep, thirty-two I count. She were before me, before the stairs, I stumbled and down she went. O, she looked so beautiful lying at the bottom of the cliff. Just afore the front door she lay. I touched her whilst she was still warm and left her lying perfectly for a few hours…

“Darling, the drink to restore me,” I woke to the eve once more. “Prithee, finish the drink for me, by my body, then, lie next to me in thy coffin beside me.”

I ran to her, lifted the glass, and finished the cool, sweet liquid, and lain in her coffin.

“Remain still. What now do you see?” she softly continued in barely a murmur, as I slowly shut my coffin lid.
“A bright sun and ocean moon coming together to be one,” I vomited.

“Am I still beautiful?”

“Yes, more than ever,” I gargled.

“A belle, a belladonna, is all I am to you. Then die in my name you fool—drink of my blood.”

I feel naught.

She still shines.

I barely hear the faint, her light singing. She is singing, humming, slowly and softly, to me, to sleep.

“Perish now, in bane, along with me.”

April 24, 2012

 

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FALL 2011

ISSUE

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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.