“Sparrow”

by Julie

      Chella woke and found herself lying on the freshly tilled dirt covering her baby’s grave. She was on her side in a fetal position, her arms hugging around her curled knees as if she was afraid that her limbs would drift off if they weren’t contained by something. She breathed in deeply, smelling the musty aroma of the earth beneath her, and tried to imagine what it was like to be down there under all that heavy, fragrant dirt. “Stop it,” she told herself. “He’s not really under there. He’s dead, can’t feel a thing.”

  She sat up slowly, keeping one slender, freckled arm latched around her calves and pushing herself upright with her other arm. The colors of the outdoors assailed her freshly opened eyes. Even though the sky over the small graveyard was overcast, there was still a white glare that bounced sharply off the grass, making it appear an almost artificially bright green. Brushing chunks of dirt off of her cheek, Chella chuckled wryly to herself. Only now that she had lost her newborn son did she realize that she had always had trouble letting go of things. She didn’t know whether to blame God for ruthlessly using this tiny human life to teach her this lesson, or herself for being too damn stubborn to learn it earlier. The opportunity to learn had presented itself again and again throughout the twenty-six years she had been alive, but she had ignored it, choosing to cling to her idyllic vision of the world where everything lasted forever.

  Chella had been an only child, a sensitive girl belonging to a desensitized mother. When she was ten, right after her father died, Chella and her mother had moved into a small, squat ranch-style house in an even smaller suburban town, leaving all the memories of her father behind- “starting over” as her mother had called it. The two of them coped with the same loss in drastically different ways. Liquor, cigarettes, and an endless harem of one-night-stands served to deaden her mother’s emotions; Chella preferred to create her own more innocent worlds to escape into. While her mother was lost in a drunken haze in the den near the back of the house, Chella would disappear for hours at a time to the park a few blocks away from her home. She never went there for the playground itself- she barely took notice of the other kids, who were busy playing hot-lava tag on the interconnected slides, bridges, and monkey-bars. The woods behind the park were the real draw for her. Once she was safely past the playground and under the thick cover of the trees, the real world melted away and Chella’s fantasies took over. She climbed trees and called them castles, dug up earthworms for pets, and gave her favorite flowers names, as if they were little faeries or sprites. In all of her invented fairytales, her father was always the knight in shining armor who never failed to rescue her from her mom, the wicked stepmother.

  One morning almost a year after the move, Chella was sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast, which consisted of a bowl of Lucky Charms with milk, the only meal that she had learned how to make for herself in her mother’s absence. After about six months of living in their new house, Chella had stopped going to school all together- her mom hadn’t noticed, and apparently neither had the public school system. Instead, she spent her days avoiding her mother as much as possible. She had overheard her mother’s encounter with one of her “man-friends” the night before, and it had ended badly, with her mother screaming drunkenly and some piece of glassware shattering against a wall. Chella’s only goal for that day was to get out of the house before her mother woke up and tried to be motherly in that false way of hers. Her mother’s bouts of sympathy for Chella usually stemmed from drunken guilt rather than motherly love, and as much as Chella craved her mother’s attention, she couldn’t bear playing her games to get it. A loud crash from the den warned Chella that her mother was awake, and she started shoveling the sugary cereal into her mouth even faster. “Fuck… God damn it!” her mother’s nicotine-marinated rasp forced itself into Chella’s ears. “No good fucking bastard. Goddamn.” She was too late to escape.

  Her mother’s entrance into the kitchen was almost comical. The room was dull and gray, as if someone had taken a black-and-white photograph of the room and had hung it up in place of the room itself, and Chella’s mother was a gaudy Colorforms sticker stuck right in the middle of it. Swaddled in a bright red terry-cloth bathrobe, she stumbled into the kitchen wildly, catching herself on the island counter in the middle of the room. Her dyed blond hair was a tangle of matted yellow straw, her bony legs two toothpicks that ended in a pair of ridiculously large blue plush slippers.

  “Hey, kid,” she croaked, reaching for a pack of cigarettes that sat on the counter. Chella kept silent, munching loudly on her cereal and stealing a backward glance at the woman. Her mother lit a cigarette and thrust it between her clownlike lips, closing her blue-shadowed eyelids as she took a drag. Her whole body shook as she breathed the smoke in, like an old rusty car struggling to start. Opening her mouth wide to exhale, she kept talking to her daughter. “Chell, what’d ya do last night? Didn’t hear ya come in.” Chella did not respond. Picking up her cereal bowl in two hands, she placed the rim against her bottom lip and tipped it all the way back, emptying the contents into her open mouth. She closed her lips around the bulging mouthful of cereal and chewed even more loudly, pretending not to hear the woman standing behind her.

  “Chella, answer me when I talk to you,” her mother demanded. Chella turned around in her chair and gave her a long stare. There was no emotion in her face, but in her mind, a million angry words were flying around, threatening to leap out of her mouth at any moment. I’m not going to talk to you just so you can feel better about yourself. It’s not my problem that you drink too much, or that your stupid man-friends don’t give a shit about you, the same way you don’t give a shit about me. Either leave me the hell alone, or start being a real mom. She managed to avoid speaking any of this, and instead turned back toward her empty bowl, waiting to be left alone. “Fine,” her mother whined, taking another puff on her cigarette. “Be a brat. I don’t care.” She held her cigarette between two fingers as she walked past her daughter, trying to act cool. Before she could make it out of the room, she stopped. Chella looked toward her mother and could see her start to shake, and when she turned back around, there were tears in here eyes. She lurched toward Chella, falling to her knees beside the girl’s chair.

      “I’m sorry, Chell,” she choked, gripping her daughter’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I do this to you. I’m so sorry…” the woman’s apology dissolved into sobs that racked her whole body. Chella didn’t know what to do, so she simply stayed still, not returning her mother’s embrace or looking directly at her. Her mother lifted her bowed head and looked at the girl, trying to read her mind. Sighing, she pleaded, “Chell, sweetie, just say something, anything.”

      Chella turned her head and looked her mother in the eye. “All you need to know is what you just said, mom,” she spoke slowly and deliberately. “Don’t apologize to me. Do something about it instead.”

      Her mother sighed heavily, letting her hands fall into her lap and slumping to the floor. As the woman sat and wept softly to herself, Chella quietly slipped out of the kitchen toward the front door. The mood inside the place was suffocating- the house had always had a clinging, depressing darkness about it that could never be dispelled. Even during the day when the windows hung wide open, the beams of sunlight would only venture a few feet into the house before being swallowed by the gloom. Now a steadily tightening tension had been added on to the dreariness, and Chella was almost at her breaking point.

      Squatting by the door, Chella reached down to tie the laces of her pink-and-white sneakers as fast as she could. She sprang to her feet and pulled open the heavy oak door, pausing to fiddle with the latch of the outer door whose thick glass pane was the only thing separating her from the outside world. Suddenly, a hard thump caused the door tremble in her hands, and she looked up just in time to see a dark shape fall lifelessly to the ground. A terrified scream escaped her throat as she jumped back.

      “Chell, what is it, honey?” her mom came skittering into the front hallway, her bedroom slippers unsteady on the slick tile floor. The woman’s face was still bloated and red from crying, and the gooey mascara dripping down her cheeks gave the impression that her face was melting.

      “Something crashed into the window,” Chella replied, sidling away from her mother’s touch. Her mother cautiously shuffled up to the door and peered down at the front porch.

      “Oh, it’s just a sparrow, sweetie,” she said, not noticing the tears welling up in her daughter’s eyes. “It’ll probably be fine. They don’t always die when they fly into windows, sometimes they’re just shocked and they’ll wake up later.” She paused and gave Chella a sideways glance, not knowing how to comfort the girl. “Why don’t you go outside and play, huh?” Chella nodded, eyes downcast, and waited for her mother to walk away before going out the front door.

      Kneeling down, Chella craned her neck to have a look at the little bird that lay crumpled and unmoving on their welcome mat. Its tiny black beak was tilted at an unnaturally sharp angle, and blood was starting to pool beneath its head. She knew that it was most likely dead- the creature’s broken beak had probably been smashed through its skull and right into its brain from the force of impact. In her anguish, though, Chella refused to accept this fact. “No,” she muttered to herself. “You’re not going to die.” Cradling the bloody mass of brown feathers in her shaking hands, she slowly walked the few blocks to the park, not taking her gaze from her precious cargo once. She didn’t even notice the other children, who had stopped their games to draw closer and stare and whisper, one girl outstretching her arm, pointing a finger and letting out a shriek of “Oh my GOD!” Chella made her way past the playground and into the woods with one thing and one thing only on her mind- she was going to heal this little crushed bird; she was going to bring him back to life.

      Once Chella was tucked away in her wooded sanctuary, she made a bed of fresh green leaves and set the bleeding bird down upon it. She paused, having no idea where to begin. In all of the fantasy novels she read, spells and poultices always worked, but as much as she relied on her little world of make-believe to shield her from reality, she knew that magic didn’t work in this life. She hadn’t been able to bring her father back from the dead, her mother had been irreparably severed from her, and this sparrow was at death’s door. Tears welling up in her eyes once again, all Chella could do was fall down beside the bird’s limp body and cry. It wasn’t as much for the sparrow that she cried, but for everything it symbolized in her self-contained world. She cried for her father, and for her mother, for herself and for her lack of control over her life. She felt like a sparrow that was continuously flying into glass doors, over and over and over again, dying a little each time but never learning to avoid those invisible panes. She cried until she fell asleep, and awoke hours later to a stray cat feasting on the corpse of the sparrow. She didn’t even bother to chase the cat away before she trudged out of the woods and made her way home.

      “Here I am again, flying straight into the next window,” Chella sighed to herself, a tear springing up in her eye. “Fifteen years later, I’m still eleven years old.” She still sat on her nameless son’s grave, arms around her ankles, swaying back and forth like a branch in a slight breeze. In her right hand she clutched a silk flower- a bright red gerbera daisy with a black-and-yellow center and green flocking on the stem. She had bought it at the supermarket the day before, rationalizing that any flower that appealed to her would be a fitting tribute to the child she never knew, the child who had not lived long enough to pick a favorite color. She rested her chin on her knees, gazing blankly at the plain marker that stood over the patch of naked ground. It sent a pang of guilt through her- guilt over the fact that she hadn’t even been able to think of a name for this child, much less pick out a headstone to put over his final resting place. The only thing that distinguished his plot from any other was a simple iron marker with Chella’s last name, McLeod, and the row number and column letter scrawled in white wax pencil.

      Chella’s hand shook as she held the fake flower in front of her. Somehow, it didn’t even feel right to be grieving over this child, who she had only held in her arms for a brief moment before he died. She wasn’t even over the baby’s father, who had left her as soon as he heard of her pregnancy. She wasn’t even through mourning her own childhood; how was she supposed to begin to mourn another childhood that would never happen? In the distance, she heard the clanging of a bell, signaling the end of the day for the students at the elementary school across the road. As the more eager of the children trickled out the front door, their sweet voices flooded her ears. They called goodbyes to each other and greeted their parents, who were waiting by their cars in the school parking lot. Chella began to cry, moved by this reminder of what she would never have with her son. She buried her face in her knees and let the tears soak her jeans as she sobbed, clutching the fake daisy in her fist.

      Suddenly, she felt a light touch on her wrist, and the gerbera daisy was being gently extracted from her clenched hand. She released her grip on the flower and looked up to find a little boy no older than eight standing beside her. “You can let go of this,” he said, taking the daisy and handing her a single white rose. “Real flowers are much better.” Chella was shocked. The boy closed her fingers around the live flower, then looked into her face. His huge brown eyes sparkled with warmth as he smiled at her.

      “Wh- why?” she stammered, feeling like an idiot. “Why are real flowers better?”

      “Real flowers are like real love,” he answered. “Real love changes all the time. It can last forever, but it blooms and fades. This thing,” he said, holding up the plastic daisy, “doesn’t change. It’s fake. You can’t use fake flowers to remember real love.”

      Chella smiled through her tears. “I think I understand,” she said slowly. The boy leaned in and wrapped his arms tightly around Chella’s shoulders, and she hugged him back.

      “You will understand,” he whispered in her ear. “All you have to do is trust love.” He stepped back from her and she saw that he was holding an entire bouquet of white roses. “Sorry I can’t give you more,” he apologized, “but these are for my mom.”

      “Thank you,” Chella called after him as he scampered away. She saw the boy run and sit down beside a man who was kneeling at a grave about thirty feet back from where Chella was. The man looked up at her, and she smiled. He gave a tired but sincere smile in return, and wrapped an arm around his young son.

      Turning back to her son’s grave, Chella placed the rose on top of the rectangle of dirt. From the moment she had let go of that plastic flower, she’d felt lighter than she could ever remember feeling; all the heaviness and longing she had lived with for so many years had all but disappeared. Real love, she thought to herself. Just trust love, and you’ll understand.

      A week later, Chella returned to the cemetery. This time, however, she was not alone. Chella’s mother had come along to see the new headstone on her grandson’s grave. Now in her late 50s, she no longer covered her face with gaudy makeup, and had allowed her bleach-blond hair to naturally fade to gray. Chella walked peacefully alongside her mother for the first time since her father was alive, leading the way through the garden of headstones to where her son’s grave lay. She stopped in front of the plot and immediately broke into a grin- someone had left a bunch of white roses- eleven to be exact- alongside the one that she had placed there seven days earlier. Chella’s mother stopped next to her and read the inscription on the pink marble headstone. “Chella, sweetie, that’s beautiful,” she exclaimed quietly, her voice quavering.

      “Thanks, mom,” she replied, squeezing her mother’s shoulder. Beneath a carving of a cherub, the chiseled letters read:

Sparrow McLeod

May 5^th-6^th, 2005

Life is fleeting,

But Real Love is Forever.

The Mating Rituals of Planet X4

Last night my comrades and I observed a peculiar ritual among the organisms of the planet X4.  These creatures seem to be essentially nocturnal, being only somewhat active by day and emerging at night together inside one of any number of enclosures crowded together across the land.

 

They appear in brightly colored suits of skins, feathers, and all manner of gaudy materials that shone or glimmered, in a clumsy attempt no doubt to attract the opposite sex.  They then proceed to engage in a bizarre mating ritual, a frenzy of awkward movements around one another whilst a strange, blaring cacophony of noises is emitted in the background.

 

This they do for several hours each night, stopping only briefly to sip liquids for sustenance or to answer nature's call, in hopes of attracting a mate.  I think, however, that this is one of the odder mannerisms of these creatures, as any two that end up as a pair at the end of the night do not necessarily remain a pair of mates, and more often than not these encounters do not produce offspring.

 

Therefore, all aforementioned efforts are useless and a waste of valuable energy and it remains a conundrum why this practice still exists; after all, they have managed to thrive for hundreds of thousands of years despite this superfluous behaviour.  Nonetheless, the anomaly remains, and the creatures plod on.

 

-- From the journals of J. L. Stanley, Professor of Foreign Biological Sciences, Planet X23

    9.16.3085

Walls

Walls

If these walls could talk.

If only these walls could talk.

Walls hear everything; they record it and it is constantly played back, long after there is anyone to listen. Ancient stones hold ancient wisdom, be it how to sow crops on an autumn day or the secret of the universe.

If you stand close enough you can still hear the sounds, echoes of echoes, that's what they've become.

We should all be listening now.

- 8/9/2006

New World/Old World

New World/Old World

The new world is in many ways quite similar to the old world. Its vast oceans hold island orbs that float lazily along, illuminated by jellyfish-like things of every size and color that traverse the great space between.

Everything is propelled by an invisible current that likes to align the orbs into archipelagos and swirl the jellyfish things into pretty patterns.

Occasionally, white, pearl-like objects can be found in suspension just off the floating island orbs. They are beautiful, just like the pearls of the old world, but they are not valued as much, as most travelers passed them by without giving much thought of the iridescent spheres.

A pity, for they did not realize that it was the pearls' luminescence that lit the islands at night when the jellyfish things went to sleep.

No traveler had yet stopped at any of the islands, having only knowledge of their own orb back in the old world. They will keep on traveling, until they reach the orb that is most like their own.

There, it will be the start of a new life, new world meets old world, and the travelers will finally put down their hats and lay down their heads.

It will be home.

Every Man Is an Island

Every Man Is an Island

Somebody once said that no man is an island. But aren't we all islands, really? I mean, we get up and go to work in the morning and we talk to the people around us, saying hello as we all crowd around the coffee maker. That coffee maker is the causeway that connects us to each other like an island that is connected to the mainland. But once you cross a causeway, you usually stay on the mainland for a while. At the office, we reach out on that causeway of a coffee maker, or maybe it's a Xerox machine, but we don't stay on the mainland. Instead, we retread to our desks and computers, going back across that causeway to become islands once more. Each cubicle stands alone in the midst of the archipelago of skyscrapers that is the working world.

As a matter of fact, nearly everything in this modern world promotes a solitary life, or dare I say, even hermitage. Human contact is no longer necessary for even the most social of modern day practices – one can order food without a waiter, buy clothes without a salesperson, and even date without meeting face to face. So, in this day and age, it truly can be said that every man is an island.

The Most Powerful Nation On Earth

The Most Powerful Nation on Earth

There is no way of telling how many years have passed since the war ended. It feels like an eternity. The entire face of the world changed on the day the freedom fighters fell to the opposition. We thought we were smarter, stronger than our enemies. We were wrong. Like vultures upon weak prey, they descended at the first falter, in a moment of --

No, that's not how it really happened. The freedom fighters - if you could call them that - were arrogant. Ignorant, too. There was no such thing as freedom, even then. The fighting began in retaliation to a blow from one of our enemies during a lethargic administration. We had become decadent - in an age of rising prices and declining money, we squandered what we had on anything we could.

Clothes, cars, and gadgets galore - we were the richest poor nation in the world. Knowing this, our leaders went the extra step to ensure our appearance as omniscient and omnipotent by sticking their noses into everyone else's business. That's how we got ourselves into trouble. When we were good and busy with other people's problems, that's when they attacked us. We were so drunk with power and immersed in our own decadence that we never even saw it coming.

And when the attacks came, we were a nation too stunned to react. Who would dare confront The Most Powerful Nation On Earth? After the shock wore off, anger set in, and our leaders retaliated. Only they got it wrong. Well, not exactly. They may have invaded the wrong country, but they knew exactly what they were doing.

After a while, the anger subsided and was replaced with avarice and self-righteousness. We continued to invade country after country, deposing leader after leader, until we had succeeded in alienating ourselves from everyone else in the entire universe. And then, finally, the world imploded.

That was seventy years ago, by our best approximation - there is no longer any such thing as precise time. For that short amount of time, we had enjoyed having control of the universe - after all, we seemed to be the only ones out there in the middle of space, so logically, he who controls the planet controls the universe.

Unfortunately, our leaders didn't take into account the weight of all this new power. Like children on a seesaw, the balance had gone up and down, repeated highs and lows for centuries, until our leaders came along. They carried weights on their side of the seesaw, just plopped right down and threw off the child at the other end, and the balance of all the cosmic forces went with it. Karma's a bitch.

Stars exploded, the moon cracked in half, and the earth fell out of orbit. Like a helium balloon a set "free" at a carnival, our planet now floats aimlessly, silently along in outer space. It's become the ultimate example of chaos theory. Unfortunately for us, for everyone really, no one had really perfected space travel up to this point - most of our funding had gone to creating armories for endless wars. They are useless to us now.

I suppose you could say that we're all on one giant space ship, floating on one giant raft throughout the sea of the universe, but this is really of no use to us now. During the war, even though (and especially because) we lacked the money for better space ships and hadn't even explored our alternative living possibilities, there was a lot of talk about transplant communities.

Well, we've certainly moved, but we're still more like foreign invaders than anything else, maybe more so now than ever, intruding into unknown corners of space. That's all there is left to intrude, anyhow. Everything else has exploded or imploded or simply burned up, and we are left a sad, wandering nomad, the last cosmic Bedouin.

And that's how it really happened. I don't know if anyone will ever hear this, considering there seems to be nothing and no one left now, but I talk nonetheless. It's the only way to break the suffocating silence.

Brave New World

Brave New World

Brave New World
You are lush and green.

Brave New World
You are full and ripe.

Brave New World
You held such hope.

Brave New World
We took everything.

Brave New World
We left you with nothing.

brave new world
now we too are left with nothing.

Rain

Rain

It had been months since the world had seen even a single drop of rain. The rivers had begun to dry up and any life from within had since perished and floated to the top, clogging what little water remained and contaminating it so that it could not be drunk by any creature that remained alive on land.

After a few weeks, people had begun digging large, deep wells anywhere and everywhere they could, trying to find pure water. What little water they could find was quickly used up, and all the damage to the surface of the earth had destroyed all grasslands and other vegetation (but all of that had dried up long ago anyway).

The earth was covered with a peculiar set of craters, not unlike its moon, another desolate environment. Someday there would be two moons, lonely even though they were together. Those who had survived prayed for rain; they did not want to live on the moon but preferred to remain at a distance from it.

And finally the rains came. The few who remained rejoiced, and they praised the heavens, and drank themselves full.

The Jungle

The Jungle

It is dark. The air is thick and the leaves are dense. The heaviness of rain hangs ominously above.

It is night. The walls pulse and seethe with life. It is claustrophobic. It is hell.

All beings are one. The floor throbs, walls close in and recede. Inhale, exhale: it breathes. It suffocates.

Noises are eerie but silence is deafening. It is the jungle.

Rite of Spring

Rite of Spring

Raindrops fall like water balloons, gently bursting at contact with human flesh. They are cool and refreshing. The sun is asleep in its blanket of clouds and the air wraps around you like a womb, soft and calming. The day goes hazily by as almost a waking dream and before you know it, you feel as though you have been hibernating for an eternity.

The Rite of Spring has begun.

Desafío

Desafío

Me dijiste que no pudiera hacerlo,
pero lo hice.
Me dijiste que fuera inepta,
pero soy lista.
Me dijiste que fuera débil,
pero soy valiente.
Me lo dijiste, y te desafío-
yo no desisto.

Musings of a Cave Bear

Musings of a Cave Bear

It is raining, like it does most days outside the cave now. You sit on your haunches, munching on leftover bones from a deer kill earlier this morning. Luckily, you are alone and don't have to guard your food as warily. You know you are the only being with any presence in this cave. Bones are strewn about all over the dirt floor from ages past, of some gawky creatures called humans. There aren't many of those around anymore.

You give hardly a thought to them, except to occasionally reminisce on those tasty morsels they provided when you brought one down. That was pretty easy to do, being that the world outside is pretty flat – not many places for a human, or any other animal, for that matter, to hide. There just aren't many animals of any kind around anymore.

The earth seems to have been permanently scorched, too. Your lips become parched easily and you are soon dehydrated after only a short venture into the desolate world outside the cave to search for food. Even the rain holds no relief; it is mostly acidic these days.

It seems like an eternity has passed since you were small and food was everywhere. You remember the days when a constant thunder roared in the distance; the endless crashing left your ears always ringing. It created chaos, every being searched for somewhere to hide from the smoke and fire, somewhere to be safe.

Except for the humans. They stayed out in the open, unafraid of the thunder; rather, they seemed to be the cause of it. You found yourself in the cave where you are now, though back then you had kin with you. You are the only one left now.

You finish the bones and retreat further back into your cave. Winter is coming – time to hibernate – and there is no telling how cold this one will be.

*Picture courtesy of Julie Hamlet

Autumn (by Julie)

Autumn (by Julie)

The marvelous shades of decay;
Crimson, saffron, gold and orange.
A beautiful funeral for the spring,
With fond memories of greener days
Woven into the tapestry of death.

When the dying leaves lay crumpled
On the cold dirt ground, covered with snow,
My mind's eye will gaze back fondly
Upon the pagentry of their final days.
And I will remind myself, that like the seasons,
I can begin anew.

-- Another post by Julie

Cemetery (By Julie)

Cemetery (by Julie)

I walked through the darkness, the dew-covered grass soaking the hems of my baggy black pants. Dead leaves rustled as the tips of my steel-toed boots brushed them out of my path. With two bags of Iron Kids white bread dangling from one fist, a bag of plain popcorn in the other and a fleece blanket draped over my shoulder, I made my way down the grassy slope just near the entrance of Pine Hill Cemetery in Des Moines, Iowa. This strange escape had become somewhat of a ritual for me. Des Moines honestly doesn’t offer much in the way of nightlife, which is bad when you’re a depressed, insomniatic young college student with too much time to think and not enough friends. On nights like this, when my mind simply wouldn’t let me sleep, I drove the few lonely miles down Merle Hay Avenue to the cemetery, parked my old blue Pontiac in the empty lot, and went to bring a meal to my good friend Jasper.
Jasper was a pet of sorts- of all the waterfowl residing in the pond at Pine Hill Cemetery, he was by far the friendliest. While all the other geese would snatch the bread from your hand and run, Jasper would slowly waddle up to you, an inquisitive look in his tiny reptile-like eyes. The first time I met Jasper was when I was in the cemetery with my boyfriend, Justin. I had a certain love for cemeteries, and we had decided to go exploring in this one since it was so close to my dorm. After wandering the graveyard’s wide expanse and marveling at the dates on some of the older headstones, we had decided to head to the pond at the mouth of the cemetery to sit and rest. The pond itself was quite large, and it was surrounded on three sides by a half-circle of trees. The side facing the cemetery entrance was open, giving both mourners and casual visitors a grand view of the arch of water that spewed from the middle of the pond’s glassy surface. There was a gravel path from the parking lot that forked in two directions: one branch of it veered to the right and became paved, leading through the graveyard’s various sections, while the portion to the right gently sloped down into a grassy valley that cradled the pond in its center.
Justin and I had come up the path from the graveyard and headed toward the pond, both squeezing onto a single large boulder by the water’s edge when we got there. The sun was starting to set, and the warm spring evening had attracted many families and couples to come to the pond and feed the ducks. We sat in silence for a moment, admiring the amber rays thrown across the pond’s surface by the setting sun and watching small children run around, holding slices of bread in their eager little hands. All of the sudden, from our right, came a large grayish-brown goose with a black bill. He was making very soft, almost plaintive honking sounds, as if asking us a question, and tilting his head with curiosity. A neon orange marker band was fastened around one of his black, scaly ankles, but he didn’t seem to notice it one bit. He approached me first, and pecked delicately at my exposed toes, which poked through my sandals. I drew my foot back in apprehension, but I quickly realized that this bird meant no harm. I stuck out my hand, and he took one of my fingers in his bill and softly nibbled on it. Once he had checked us out, he let us both stroke the downy feathers of his neck and chest, all the while making the same cooing honks that he had greeted us with. When we got up to leave, the goose seemed distressed. He walked in front of us, as if trying to block our path, and his soft voice became loud and mournful, emanating in deafening honks. He even tried to climb into Justin’s rusted Camarro, in the hopes that we would take him home with us. I immediately fell in love with this creature.
I decided on the name Jasper for our newfound friend, thinking it was unique and whimsical. After this initial visit, we returned many times, always taking long strolls through the cemetery before paying Jasper a visit. He would always come waddling as fast as possible toward us, whether we had food or not, greeting us with loud, excited honks. We saw the way that Jasper interacted with people, and how happy his friendliness made them feel. Once, as we were sitting on the same boulder sharing our lunches with Jasper, and old bearded man in ratty clothes approached us. Without saying a word, the man scooped up Jasper in his arms, gave him a long hug, set him back down and walked away. I was amazed at this peculiar goose’s ability to put a smile on people’s faces.
This night was very different from that lighthearted afternoon when Justin and I had first visited the cemetery. It was now mid February, and Justin had long been out of the picture. I had continued my nightly visits because Jasper was the one being who I felt I could relate to in this town. He was a misfit as well- all the other geese shunned him, and often gouged him with their beaks to get him away from any morsel that was tossed his way. They all congregated on the far end of the pond while he wandered by himself, looking for someone to make friends with. I felt the same way as I stumbled through school, not truly connecting to anyone and not getting anything from my classes. I had just made the heavy decision to leave school and return home to Illinois. I knew this was the last time I would get to see Jasper, and even though I felt slightly silly getting sentimental over a common farm animal, I had to at least give him one last farewell.
I approached the left bank of the pond, listening to the water slowly lap the rocky edges. Right on cue, Jasper’s ear-splitting honk let me know that I wasn’t the only one still awake. I could barely make out the rest of the geese sleeping in the darkness, their huddled bodies clumped together for warmth under the tree cover on the far side of the pond. I ripped open the popcorn, feeding a handful to Jasper. He eagerly gobbled it up, and then followed me as I walked to a spot in the middle of the lawn facing the lake. I opened one loaf of bread and tossed the whole thing a couple yards away so that the other birds would not bother Jasper while he was eating. Then I laid my blanket down over the cold ground and sat on it, opening the other bag of bread for Jasper and I to share. The small bag of popcorn was gone quickly, and between the two of us the white bread didn’t stand a chance. I laid back on the grass and looked up at the stars as Jasper nestled down beside me and tucked his head under one wing.
This unlikely place had become so familiar to me over the months that it was beginning to seem comfortable and almost homey. When I thought about leaving Des Moines, the only thing that made me want to stay was this graveyard. I had walked its roads and explored its different sections so many times that I knew it like the back of my hand. I even felt safe drifting off to sleep, because I knew if anyone approached that Jasper would warn me. I woke up, cold and covered in dew an hour later. I sighed, knowing that I should probably leave before the cops came by and became suspicious of the lone car sitting in the parking lot at 4AM. I sat up slowly, not wanting to rouse the sleeping animal beside me. I gently stroked his neck, and he cooed a bit, opening one eye to look at me. “Bye Jasper,” I whispered, easing myself to my feet. As soon as I had taken a step away, he started calling loudly, seeming to know that I would not be coming back. I smoothed the feathers on his chest, and bent down to give him a hug. I could still hear his call trailing off behind me as I made my way up the hill into the parking lot and got into my car. To this day I think of that cemetery when I am lonely, and I wonder what happened to Jasper, that wonderful creature who kept me sane in those trying times.

Eternal Comfort (by Aaron)

Eternal Comfort (by Aaron)

Walking through the forest
The birds choir sings
Sunlight is dancing off the leaves
There is no sign of love nor hate
No thoughts or feelings of pain
With a breeze that comes and goes
Plant life that always grows
Intake a breathe of fresh air
Every step you take to prove you're alive
In her forest of serenity
She brings us eternal comfort

Henry (by Julie)

Henry (by Julie)

It was a beautiful day on the sunny island of Nassau, and it was a day that would change Henry’s life in a way he would never have imagined. It was a little after noon, the time when Henry usually took a break from giving tours from his depot near the Gregory Arch. This was usually the time of day when tourists were too busy thinking about lunch to want to start a walking tour. Henry had started his business of giving tours about twelve years ago, and American tourists had kept it alive and well ever since. After the end of the Second World War, Americans seemed to have an increasing need to get away. Combined with the fact that Cuba was closed off to American visitors five years later, this made the Bahamas the newest vacation hotspot. Henry had taken advantage of this, and used his knowledge of the island and its history to make a living for himself as the island’s first real tour guide. He charged only a small fee, but made more than enough money to keep himself clothed, fed, and protected from the elements.
As he ambled down Hill Street towards the arch, he noticed that everything was not as peaceful as it usually was. The little Bahamian boy who was watching the booth was still there, but he was cowering under the glare of a pair of middle-aged tourists, his wide brown eyes locked on them like a rabbit about to be pounced on by a pair of cats. The boy spied Henry coming from a distance and his face softened a bit, but the looming presence of the couple kept his eyes hard. The woman was wearing a rigid gray dress with a belt at the waist and four large buttons leading up to a collared neck. Her shoulder-length blond hair flowed out from under a floppy gray wide-brimmed hat. Her face was masked by a large pair of dark sunglasses, but Henry could tell from the rouge on her pouting lips and the porcelain appearance of her cheeks that her makeup had been applied with impeccable care. The man next to her, presumably her husband, was dressed just as stiffly, wearing neatly ironed tan khakis and a crisp collared shirt with a sweater vest over it. He squinted into the sun, one hand shielding his eyes and the other in a fist on his waist, looking for the man who was supposed to be there to lead them on their tour.
Henry quickly sidled up to the little booth, slipping the boy a couple bills before he ran off. He smiled at the couple, his brilliant white teeth shining against his deep brown skin. “Hello, how can I help you fine folks today?” he asked, clasping his slender hands together over his chest.
“We’d like to go on a tour,” snapped the woman in an American accent. “We’re a little short on time, though. Can we go now?” She glanced at her husband’s wristwatch. “If we leave right this second, we’ll make it back in time for our tennis lesson at the resort.”
“Well, folks,” Henry explained, “I usually wait ‘til the hour to leave, ‘cause it gives a few more people a chance to show up. B’sides, the tour is pretty long, and dat’s no good if you don’t have de time to enjoy it.” The woman wrinkled her nose, and her pout grew even more pronounced.
“Can’t you just give us the short version?” she huffed, folding her arms in front of her. “There’s really no other time we can do it.”
“We’ll pay you extra,” her husband offered before Henry could respond. “We’ll even give you double the normal cost. Please.” His brow furrowed in worry as he glanced over at his impatient wife. Henry sighed and rubbed at his salt-and-pepper stubble with his thumb. He didn’t like compromising the quality of his tours just to make them fit into someone else’s schedule, but at the same time, he didn’t want to disappoint the couple. He looked around him to see if anyone was approaching the tour booth, and when he found the street nearly empty, he relented.
“All right, I s’pose I can do dat for you, just dis one time,” he said smiling. For the first time since he had laid eyes on her, the woman broke into a grin. The man, looking strangely relieved, handed him two twenty-dollar bills. Henry put the money into the brown cloth pouch that he kept fastened to his belt, set a sign up on the table, and then looked up at the couple. “All right folks,” he said, stepping out from behind the table. “I s’pose we’re off.”
Henry led the couple underneath the pink stone arch. It jutted out of the rock cliffs, splitting the hill neatly in half. “Dis is de Gregory Arch,” he explained to his charges. “It was built in 1852, so dat de workers who traveled downtown could go through the hill instead of havin’ to go ovah it.” The couple smiled as Henry outstretched his arm, signifying to them the greatness of this achievement. The group emerged on the other side of the arch into the midday sun. It was blistering hot, and the two tourists’ rigidly starched clothing was sticking to their sweaty skin. Henry walked on, oblivious to the heat in his loose tan shirt and pants, woven from palm fibers by a local artisan. Palm trees and glossy shrubs spilled off of the rock cliffs on either side of them, splashing dappled sunlight across their path and infusing the scenery with life.
Henry turned to the two tourists. “So, where have you been since you got to de island?” he asked.
“Oh, mostly downtown,” the woman replied. “We shopped the market district, and we’ve gone on some excursions through the resort. Mostly snorkeling and dinner cruises. Oh, and eating out as well. The Chez Willie is wonderful, you know.” She gave a little cordial laugh as if Henry should know all about dining in expensive French restaurants. “We were recommended to you by a man we met in town,” she continued. “He said you were a very knowledgeable guide.”
“Well I’m glad he told you to come heah,” Henry said. “There is a lot mo’ to de island of Nassau than just downtown. I’ll show you what you been missin’ by just staying in de resort- I’ll show you de heart of de island,” he proclaimed with a smile and a wink. The couple managed only a weak smile, but Henry continued. “De area we ah going into is where I always start my tours. Dis is de area where most of de natives live. Folks call this part of de city “Ovah-De-Hill,” but it’s neah Grant’s Town and Bain Town, de original British settlements of de island.”
As they advanced into the town, the changes were noticeable. Instead of the pink stucco and white brick that comprised almost every building in the downtown district, there were simple homes of cement and aluminum siding. The hustling pace of downtown was completely absent here, and everything went at the normal speed of life. An old man sitting on his porch waved at Henry with one hand, while lazily flicking the ashes off of his cigarette with the other. Two little black girls wearing pigtails and overalls ran along the side of the street, bouncing a colorful inflated rubber ball between them and giggling wildly. As Henry passed, they called out to him with choruses of “Grandpa,” which was the nickname he had earned among the town’s children. He waved and chuckled, his eyes twinkling from beneath his large straw hat. There were a few shops and bars along the road, barely distinguishable from the homes except for the carved and painted signs that hung above their porches.
The group walked on in silence for a few minutes as Henry gave his visitors a chance to soak in their surroundings. Then, he started to speak again. “De island was first settled by de British in 1666,” he started. “It actually started as a haven for pirates and rum-runners, but later…”
“Oh, who cares,” the woman snapped. Henry and the woman’s husband both turned to look at her in startled silence. She noticed their stares, and glared back at them. “I’m sorry, but why did you take us here?” she demanded of Henry. “There’s nothing historical here; there aren’t any monuments or tourist attractions at all. It’s just a backwater slum. I could see a town like this in any rural part of America.”
“Dear, you’re being rude,” her husband said in a sudden rush of courage. “This town is where this man grew up, of course it is important to him.” The couple turned to each other, completely ignoring Henry and started to argue. Henry stood and watched, bewildered.
“I don’t care if it’s where he grew up. How is that important to this tour at all?”
“You’re embarrassing me! Why don’t you just give him a chance to talk? He was right in the middle of a sentence when you…”
“You know what? I’m sick of you thinking you know it all! This is complete garbage! We’re here in the middle of some hick town in the Bahamas when we should be in our hotel room getting ready for our tennis lesson!” By this point the bickering had turned into shouting, and a couple of older women had stopped their conversation and looked over to see what was the matter. The American woman spotted them and wrinkled her face up. “Stop staring!” she screamed, aiming her words directly at them. “Mind your own goddamn business!” Her husband grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her to face him as the two women hurried away.
“What is the matter with you?” he shouted, his eyes growing wide with disbelief. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you! It was your idea to go on this tour in the first place!”
“Folks,” Henry said firmly, cutting in to their dialogue. “De most important part of de culture of Nassau is its people. If you want to know about de real history and culture of dis island, then you can stop yellin’ and come with me. If you don’t, you can go back to yo’ hotel and eat in yo’ fancy restaurants, and you can pretend dat’s all de island really is. It’s up to you.” He stood there, breathing heavily, trying not to let his anger get the best of him. The woman had started to cry, and her confused husband was still holding her by the shoulders at an arm’s length away from him. Finally she looked up at him, salty tears mixing her rouge and mascara together in a gooey mess.
“Don’t preach at me old man,” she sobbed. “You don’t know what it’s like. You live on this perfect little island filled with happy people, and you have no idea what it’s like to lose a child.” She broke down crying and fell to her knees, as her husband knelt down beside her.
“Is that what this is all about?” He asked her. “Honey, I…” He paused and turned to Henry, a pained look in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he explained, “but we lost our young son in the war over ten years ago, and I guess she’s never gotten over it. I’m sorry.” His voice trailed off into a whisper.
Henry was at a loss for words. His heart ached, but not because of the woman’s great loss. Her stinging words had made him remember his own loss so many years ago. He turned and started walking away from them, and mumbled, “De tour is ovah. Goodbye folks.”
“Where are you going?” the woman demanded, calling up to him from her prone position on the ground. “What about our money?” Henry paused, reached into his pouch, and pulled out the two twenty-dollar bills they had given him. Walking over to the woman, he knelt down, pressed the bills into her palm, and whispered, “I may not know what it is like to lose a son, but I do know what it is like to lose a daughter, a wife, and twenty years of my life. You’ll be all right.” He gently folded her fingers closed around the money, backed up, and shuffled away. The woman just watched as he left, her mouth gaping, fishlike, unable to say a word.
Henry’s slender frame slumped now as he walked back toward his stand. The familiar scenery which had always been so comforting to him now seemed hostile, repressed memories jumping out to attack him at every corner. There was the intersection where he had held his wife in his arms as she passed away; there was the little graveyard where he had buried the two people he loved most in this life. A single tear escaped his eye and rolled down his cheek, the first tear he had cried in nearly twenty years. He managed to stumble back to the tour booth, and started stuffing his brochures and signs into the battered suitcase he kept under the table. Just then his friend Slim passed by, and noticed Henry there.
“Hey, Henry!” he exclaimed. “You packin’ up early, mon?” Henry sighed, not looking up from his suitcase. “No mo’ tours today,” he answered. “I’m not feelin’ too good.” Slim furrowed his brow and fixed Henry with a stare. “You take care of yo’self now, Henry,” he admonished. “If there is anythin’ you need, come find me.” Henry responded with a grunt, still not raising his head to look his friend in the eye. Slim walked off, glancing back momentarily at the old man before continuing on his way.
Henry headed back into the native area of town, carrying his suitcase in one hand and his wooden stool in the other. As he passed through this village that had been his home for so many years, his mind now turned to the day of the accident. It played out in front of him as if it were happening all over again. He honestly couldn’t even remember how the argument had started- if the rich merchant had tried to cheat him, or if he had done something to upset the man. Whatever the cause, it had escalated into a yelling match, and ended with the merchant getting into his Ford Model T and slamming the door, screaming obscenities the whole time. In his rage, the man had put the car in reverse and swerved, narrowly missing Henry. Lily, Henry’s wife, was not so lucky. The force of the moving car had knocked Lily to the ground, and she was crushed under its wheels. Henry saw her in his mind’s eye, trying to push Anna, their young daughter who she had been holding, out of the path of the car only to watch her tiny body snap under the car’s front tire. The merchant, realizing what he had done, sped off never to be seen again, but the damage he had done stayed with Henry for years to come.
The death of his little family had affected Henry profoundly. For weeks, he didn’t eat or sleep, haunted by his last memory of his wife struggling for air at the side of a dirt road, her dying breath used to proclaim her love for him. He couldn’t bear to re-enter the house that they had shared, and left it standing vacant. He moved into a room in the house of an old neighborhood widow, who took pity on him. He barely left the bedroom, and the kind woman brought him food and tended to his every need. He lived like a hermit for nearly twenty years, until the day that the old woman died in her sleep. Jolted to the realization that he, too, was mortal, he resolved to put his past behind him. He was almost fifty, and had wasted nearly a quarter of his life away.
Henry realized now that he had made a mistake all those years ago- instead of coming to terms with the pain he felt, he had ignored it and shoved it to the dark and dusty corners of his mind. All the town’s men knew him as “good ol’ Henry,” and the young kids were charmed by his friendly demeanor. Beneath the glowing exterior, though, Henry had been ridden with guilt this whole time. He blamed himself for the deaths of Lily and Anna- he was involved in the argument that eventually lead to their deaths, so he should have been the one squashed under the tires of the angry man’s car. He would rather have died himself than watch his beloved wife suffer. Even his chosen name was a testament to how badly he missed her. Henry was only a nickname- his real name was Onri. After Lily’s death, however, he couldn’t bear to hear anyone say his name, because all he could think about was how those syllables had sounded so beautiful rolling off the tongue of his wife. He had requested that people start calling him Henry, numbing any connection that he had to his wife and daughter. It had only worked for so long, though- the American woman’s breakdown had sent all of the fear, pain, hatred, and guilt that Henry had been suppressing for years rushing back into his blood, tainting every movement and thought he had until he almost couldn’t bear to stand up straight anymore.
Henry stumbled up to the doorstep of his old house. It had been empty and waiting for him all these years, but up until now, he couldn’t bring himself to cross its threshold. He had lived the life of a vagabond, sleeping at neighbors’ houses, on front porches or empty stairways, and sometimes under the protection of the Gregory Arch itself. The house was a meager structure, made of dark brown wood siding with an aluminum roof, but it held more memories than anyone could imagine. The yard had become overgrown with shrubs and weeds from years of neglect. Two large trees grew on either side of the doorway, forming a protective arch for Henry as he almost crawled up the front stoop and across the floorboards of the entryway. He made it about five feet into the front hallway, kicking the door shut behind him. By this point he was crying. He collapsed on the wood floor, breathing in the musty, dirty smell between sobs. All he wanted right now was to sleep, so that maybe he could forget this horrible, heavy feeling that weighed on every part of his body. He laid his head down and prayed that unconsciousness would overtake him soon.
Some time later, Henry felt himself floating. He wasn’t sure whether he was awake or not. He couldn’t feel anything beneath him, and all he could see was a thick bluish fog, as if in a dream. Then, there she was, right in front of him. Her flawless chocolate skin, her beautiful almond-shaped eyes, her ebony hair flowing over her shoulders- everything about her was just as he remembered it. Lily was dressed in a colorful African dress, and a smile parted her full lips. “Onri, I’m so glad to see you,” she greeted him. He opened his mouth to speak, to tell her it was all his fault and how sorry he was for everything- for the accident, for trying to forget her- but she drew closer and put her outstretched index finger to his lips. “Don’t say a word, my dear Onri,” she whispered. “I’ve already forgiven you for everything; it’s about time you forgave yourself.” Lily leaned forward and planted a kiss on his forehead. Then she drew back and smiled lovingly at him once more before fading into the fog. He didn’t remember falling asleep or waking up, but when he became conscious, still huddled on the hard wood floor of his entryway, he felt warm and comfortable, as if he had been sleeping in Lily’s arms all night.
The next morning, Henry strode downtown into Rawson Square with a beaming smile on his face. He passed by Slim, who was there performing with his steel drum trio.
“Henry,” Slim called out. “ You’re lookin’ much bettah than de las’ time I saw you. Glad to see you around!”
Henry grinned at his friend with a sparkle in his eye that Slim had never seen before. “Yes, I am feelin’ bettah, mah friend,” Henry replied. “Only, I would like it if you started callin’ me by my given name. Call me Onri.”

Hace solito

Hace solito

Hace solito,
Hace Solita,
Era un ritmo,
Como si fuera un mito.
Hace solito,
Hace Solita,
Del calor no se grita,
Mas ríe de la lucita.

Unrequited

Unrequited

You look at her the way I wish you'd look at me. You've had that look on your face since the day I met you and some days I am happy for you and some days it kills me to see it. I wish I had the courage to tell you how I feel but I am a coward. I wish I could have told you this before, so it could be us together now. At the same time I wonder if I glorify you, idolize you, and put you up on a pedestal. I know your flaws because they are like mine. This makes me wary to be with you, but is it because I don't know what to say to you, or how to deal with my own emotions? I think we would be so good together some days, but on other days, I think, is it really healthy for two people like us to be together? We might bring each other down. But at the end of the day, I still wish you were with me. Maybe someday I can overcome my obstacles and open up to you. But until then, I can't say a word, because you are both my friends, and it would kill me just as much to hurt you both if I opened my mouth. Love is a funny thing - if that's what this is. More like infatuation. Someday I'll get over it, but I'll always be wondering - what if?

Blues

Blues

Drumsticks padded softly against leather like stardust sprinkling down upon the midnight earth. The violin echoed the gentle night breeze, and the piano could have lulled the moon to sleep.

But it was the voice that was truly amazing; it was the voice that people came to hear. The Silver Fox was filled to the brim with an audience anxious to see Jamie Fox's last performance. Tomorrow, she would put away her microphone and her sequined dresses.

As she gazed out into the audience, her ebony hair shone under the dim mood lighting, and her chocolate colored skin seemed ready to melt. Adrenaline raced through her veins, and yet she felt strangely tranquil.

She'd always loved the atmosphere of the huge brownstone on Ninth. There was just something about it that made her feel safe, peaceful, loved.

That was back when she still had money. She'd bargained with the owners of the building to sell it to her cheap. She reasoned that once the nightclub was under way, they'd always be welcome for drinks.

The keys of the piano chimed softly, echoing Jamie's every breath, under the fingertips of Theo Scott. Wistfully, he keyed the melody of My Heart Speaks to Your Soul," Jamie's big hit. They'd had some good times at the Silver Fox, he and Jamie.

Sure, it'd been hard to work together those first few nights after they'd been together, but they'd bounced right back.

And when she told him she was pregnant...

Stop that, he told himself. You just can't think about that anymore. She's gone, and she ain't comin' back. She's gone forever...

That night with Jamie had been the best night of his life. But now it had been reduced to a painful, lonely memory at best, after the baby...

Jamie caught him looking at her, with the same nostalgia she herself had been feeling. She stared at Theo for a long moment, then shook herself out of her reverie.

She winked at Theo, smiled at him, and turned back to the audience. The lights had begun to fade dangerously low in anticipation of her final verse. She couldn't even make out the people in the front row now. Life seemed a blur.

And the last I saw of you,

You took my heart with you.

My heart speaks to your soul,

The pieces of my broken heart

Make you once again whole.


The lights faded into darkness, and Jamie remained alone, peaceful, on stage, remembering a love lost and a life ended before it could start.

"Jamie," It was Theo. Jamie opened her eyes. "Show's over."
"Of course, Theo. I'll just get my things and then I'll go." Theo smiled kindly, his brown eyes alight.

The room suddenly filled with the noise of the last of the audience members still shuffling their way out the door.

Jamie didn't look back but stopped just once to pick up a book of matches with the words, "Silver Fox: One Three Six Ninth Street" printed on it. She closed the door behind her.

*This story was inspired by a painting called Enchanting Keys by Monica Stewart.

Wandering Star

Wandering Star

The wandering star tries to convince itself that it has a path to follow.

It floats around in the empty vastness of space, its celestial body giving off a soft yellow glow.

Its journey has been long and hard, but the wandering star never gives up hope.

It has been travelling for aeons in the darkness, but the wandering star never gives up hope.

One day, it finally reaches its destination:
A glowing blue orb, floating in the midst of the abyss.

The orb's glow comes not from light, but from its soul, its heart, its very being as it is filled with the essence of life.

The wandering star has found its place -- it belongs here and its mission is to watch over the blue orb.

The orb recognizes its guardian and it moves closer.

"I've been waiting so long," the orb says. The two begin a dance.
"You have done well child," the star says. "You have no more worries; I am here to protect you."

Both the wandering star and the glowing blue orb are filled with love and happiness for one another, for the blue orb now has someone to care for it, and the wandering star has found where it belongs.

The star fixes itself in space; it no longer wanders but remains ever silent, ever regal, watching over its precious blue orb.

*This story was inspired by the title of a Portishead song called "Wandering Star."

The Dust of Life

The Dust of Life

Every rose has its thorn,
Like ice has fire,
Like the grass has wind.

How do you know when your time is up?
The wind swoops down to carry you away, the ice begins to melt and the rose begins to wilt.

Everything turns to dust and goes back to the earth,

While the stars above continue to sprinkle the earth with new dust to create new things.

¿Qué podría decir?

¿Qué podría decir?

Yo sabía que ella me había dicho que no, que no podría contárselo, pero ¿cómo no podría hacerlo?
...Me miraba con ojos amorosos – amorosos para ella – mas enojados...lo sentí...en ese momento, sentí su fervor, su pasión...debía contárselo, debía contárselo.
“Bueno, Ferndando...Elena sabe...ella sabe todo,” yo le di.
“Yo lo se, María.” Ahora, tenía un gesto perfectamente, extrañosamente tranquilo. Su voz era como si fuese de plomo. No pude sentir mis piernas.
Entonces, estábamos callados, todo sereno...nadie sabe ese tipo de quietud. Era como la calma antes de la tormenta.
Ella viniese con toda fuerza...
Esa fue la primera vez, la única vez, que me golpeó. Fue el fin de mi vida y el comienzo de mi vida.
Apenas sabía lo que me había pasado. Fernando nunca me había tratado de esa manera...entonces yo sabía que tenía que escapar, de huirme – no había otro modo.
Todo el tiempo, Elena, su esposa, no había salido de la cocina. No sé si lo nunca supo o si siempre lo suspechaba.
Yo le di unas palabras a Fernando y me fui. Fue la última vez que lo vi.

Nunca pensé que olvidase ese día...era impreso en mi mente para siempre.
Pero, ahora, le agradezco. Si no fuera para Fernando, no tendría la vida que tengo hoy. Me mudé a la ciudad, más para el centro, más allá que esas afueras...yo tengo un piso. Y tengo Rafaél, él por quién vivo. Todo está seguro...

* * *

“María – ”
“Qué pasa, mi amor?”
“El bebé está llorando – está gritando...¿no lo oyes?”
“Estoy preparando la cena, mi amor. Tú puedes cuidarlo,”
“María, él está llorando....llorando, llorando...”
“Vale. Ahora yo voy.”

The Sea of Your Dreams

The Sea of Your Dreams

Quisiera raptarte y tomar el camino
hacia el sur de Andalucia y perderme
contigo en el mar de tus suenos.

- Anonymous poem I found written on a wall in Spain.