poems about chris

poem 1

And the sun rose behind his eyes,
And the morning broke in his smile.
And when he held me close
The world was whole,
And so was I.

And when he laughed the birds sang,
And when he woke the seas parted.
And when he kissed my lips
The world swelled with joy,
And so did I.

And when he shook his head,
And when he said no more,
And when he waved goodbye,
The world broke in two.
The skies cried and never stopped.
And neither did I.

poem 2

It is as unchanging as the pattern of the birds.
It is as unchanging as the rising of the sun,
The scent of the grass,
The sound of a nightingale,
The taste of a strawberry,
The swell of my chest when I breathe you in.
It is solid as the tortoise shell,
It is solid as the mountains,
The granite,
The marble,
The diamond,
The heat between your trembling legs.
It is as fleeting as the leaves in fall.
It is as fleeting as the seasons,
The sunrise,
The sunset,
The life of an insect,
The time it took to say hello, I love you,
Goodbye.

winter morning

I felt the light coming in the window before I saw it. The soft, blue-white glow of ambient morning light on snow was sneaking in around the sides of my black-out curtains, but I didn’t mind. I let my eyes open slowly, reveling in the sensation of this particular winter morning. I gently lifted my goose-down comforter from my body and rested it on the bed as I sat up. I stretched silently, and hugged myself. I felt so unbelievably cozy and snug in the knit sweater my husband had given me two years before. It was tradition to sleep in it on Christmas Eve. I slipped my striped stocking feet into my soft, faux-suede slippers that sat beside the bed. They hugged my toes and made me feel infinitely secure. I stood and walked to the window.
Pulling back the shade, I was met by the gorgeous swell of fresh, white snow blanketing the landscape that was once so familiar to me. Everything looked foreign, coated in the frozen blanket of marshmallow fluff. The shape of the deck was indistinct. I could see toys and lawn furniture that hadn’t been brought in before the weather turned polar. I looked across the stretch of our backyard and saw the neighbor’s glowing Christmas lights shining like beacons in the early holiday morning. I took note of how perfectly straight the lights were, and how each bulb was glowing with intensity and warmth, as if they knew how important their role was on this special morn.
Leaving my husband with visions of sugarplums and ATVs, I tip-toed quietly down the stairs, running my finger over the garland that we had woven around the spokes of the handrail. I heard it crunch and crackle quietly under the delicate touch of my outstretched fingers. As I reached the bottom step, I paused and took auditory inventory of my sleeping family. I couldn’t hear any tiny feet running about, so I continued in my silent tradition.
I moved to the living room where the tree stood, silent and stoic, casting its majestic glow over the room and the forbidden, wrapped secrets and gifts that lie beneath it. I found a book of matches in the drawer of one of the end tables, and quietly lit a bayberry candle and a gingerbread spice candle. I watched the little flames dance, melting the fragrant wax. I waited as the aromas began spreading through the room, curling me in the scents of my own childhood and warming my soul. I hugged myself another time and made my way to the kitchen.
I turned the dial on the small radio I kept in the kitchen, and the room was filled with the tiny tinkling of a radio on level 2. The carols were sweet and uplifting. Every note deliberately written to make me feel the light and excitement and magic of the season. I swayed a bit to the “Carol of the Bells” and “What Child Is This” before opening the refrigerator and removing the risen cinnamon rolls I had prepared the night before. I pre-heated the oven and turned on the coffee maker, then I began making cream cheese frosting as quietly as possible.
As the buns baked in the oven, turning golden brown in the heat, and filling the kitchen with the scents of cinnamon and bread, I began to hear the sounds of Christmas morning coming from upstairs. I heard light footsteps, the flush of a toilet, the rushing of water as my children brushed their teeth and washed their hands and faces. I imagined their bright eyes dancing in the mirror as they whispered about everything they hoped to find under the tree.
I could hear them descending the stairs as I filled two mugs of coffee for my husband and me. As I was pouring cream into the sweet, swirling contents of my mug, I felt two tiny arms snake around my waist, hugging me like a scarf. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the sweet sensation of my child’s embrace. I turned in his arms and hugged him back.
“Happy Christmas, mommy,” he whispered into my stomach.
“Happy Christmas, my baby,” I whispered as the house came alive with the spirit of the season.

breakfast

You know you're in rough shape when, instead of coffee with breakfast, you take two Lortab and a half-empty glass of Bacardi Select. I had other indications leading up to this point, such as a harmless nightcap becoming half the bottle. I should also mention those narcotics aren't prescription. I buy them 10-count from a young Latino kid who lives on my floor.
"It shouldn't be this way," I think for the millionth time as I pour the burning rum down my reluctant throat. "Oh yeah? How should it be?" the booze immediately muscles in. These silent discussions between my substances and me are common and generally harmless--unless the substances band together and gang up on me. It happens.
I take a small, uninterested and uncommitted bite of unbuttered toast before responding to myself: "I should be successful. I should have... nice things." The Bacardi scoffs. "Things? What more do you need than a little chemical altering?" I consider this point. As far as basics go, they're all being met. It's the additional bits and pieces of the human experience I'm missing out on. Wardrobe, for one. I look down at the tragic pieces of fabric I've tossed over my limp body this particular morning. Hello drab grey sweat pants. Hello tight black tank-top. Sorry about that bleach stain that looks like New Jersey.
The clothes don't respond.

saves the day

“So I fucked it up, I watched you go. I saw my hand not dialing the phone…” It never ceases to marvel me how my iPod has such a knack for playing the songs that reflect exactly how I feel at any given time. I was even holding my cell phone in my hand, but couldn’t bring myself to call her and apologize, or even send an apologetic text message. I wanted to throw the phone full-force against the opposing wall, but I’d already lost two devices that way and I knew the insurance plan I finally bought didn’t come with Girlfriend Protection.
I turned down the iHome that sat on my bedside table and called my mother instead. She was always so full of good advice, and always willing to give it. Another Saves the Day song played in my mind. “Called my mom last night, she said ‘Sweetie, you don’t need someone who’s more fleeting than fall.’” My mom would give such advice, if Bex was, in fact, fleeting. But over the course of the past four years, Bex had been my anchor. My constant. She kept me moored and afloat at the same time. Without her the only constant was the overwhelming sense of drifting.
“Hi, honey. What’s up?” my mother’s voice filled my head and I was grateful I hadn’t gotten her voicemail. I knew how busy this season was for her at work.
“Hey Mom,” I breathed, giving her instant access to my well of miserable feelings. “I think I just needed to hear your voice.”
I could hear the smile and warmth across the distance. Whoever said cell phones were ruining the way we connect with people was full of shit. I don’t know what I’d do without the option of instant access to my mother. Maybe I was just needier than my peers. Or most high school students, for that matter. “Then I’m glad I answered,” she said warmly. “Don’t get mad if I’m wrong, but did something happen with Rebbie?”
I couldn’t help the smile that came at the mention of my ex-girlfriend’s alter-ego, Rebbie. They were essentially the same person, but I had exclusive rights to the nickname “Bex” and always used it when we were alone. To everyone else, my private Bex was known as Rebbie. Both short for Rebecca, of course.
“You guessed it. I think I really messed up this time, Mom. And the worst part is I can’t bring myself to apologize.”
Papers rustled in the background. I probably shouldn’t have bothered her at the office, but I was already feeling a bit better. She muttered something to a coworker and asked, “What do you need to apologize for?”
With a heavy sigh, I began telling my mother what had happened over the course of the past two weeks. I told her the events that had led to Bex calling me a “neurotic sociopath with sub-terrestrial self-esteem” before kicking me out of her Jeep and driving away for good. It had taken great effort to fight tears when it occurred, but I’d mulled over it so many times and relived it in my mind in the past two days that I was almost numb to the memory.
“Oh, sweetie,” she breathed. “You did mess up. God, why do you do this?”
The words stung, but only briefly. Like being snapped by a rubber band. My mother must have heard my sharp intake of breath because she continued. “I’m not angry, don’t get me wrong. I just wish… I wish she wasn’t right. But she is! I don’t know about the self-esteem part, but you can be very, well, sociopathic sometimes. And questioning her fidelity in front of her parents? Very bad call, son.”
I sighed again. “I know. I know I shouldn’t have done that. I ruined that night in a big way. It’s a good thing it wasn’t their first impression of me, but still.”
My mother moved some papers around again and I heard her desk phone ringing. I considered letting her go, but she still hadn’t told me what to do yet. “Mom?”
“Yeah, honey?” She was getting distracted by something on her end. I felt the same bleak sadness I’d felt before calling her. Bex was right about everything. She should’ve called me a Momma’s Boy as well.
“Just tell me what to do,” I breathed desperately.
It was her turn to expend a long breath. “Don’t apologize yet. If you do it now it will only perpetuate her opinion of you as a whiney, self-absorbed, self-depreciating—”
“Mom.”
“Sorry. But you get my point. You need to change those things about yourself before you try winning her back. You did a series of stupid things, Nick. Fix yourself before you try fixing things with Rebbie. I have to go, honey. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks for listening,” I muttered, trying not to take her words as offensive. “I love you.”
“I love you too, hun. Talk to you later.” The phone fell silent and I placed it reverently on the side table. I stared at the room surrounding me, and all the things that reminded me of Bex. It was overwhelming how integrated our lives had become in four years. I considered putting the music back on before it occurred to me it was Bex who had introduced me to Saves the Day in the first place.
“Damn it,” I breathed before walking into the kitchen to make myself something to eat.


“Rebbie! Come look at this!” my sister called from the next room. I paused the reality show I was watching and stood from her overstuffed leather couch. I cast another disdainful glance at my cell phone sitting on the corner of the pine coffee table. The screen still hadn’t lit with a message from Nick, and part of me was relieved. I still didn’t know whether I wanted an apology out of him, or if I owed him one for the harsh words I’d tossed his way. Not to mention abandoning the poor prick on the side of the road.
I walked down the hall and turned into my sister’s spacious master bedroom. It was easily my favorite room in the house, as she had given me unlimited funds from her husband’s credit card with which to decorate it. I found her sitting on the floor at the foot of their California king sized four-poster bed. She was sitting in a nest of old photographs. I fell to my knees beside her and leaned in to see the snapshot she was holding.
“Can you believe how madly in love you were with that doofus?” she asked with the teasing softness only a sister can produce. She handed me the picture and resumed picking through the piles of glossy and matte memories that surrounded us.
I held it by the edges, as it was a glossy and I hated nothing more than fingerprints on the surface of photos. It was a picture from my freshman year of high school. The photographer had been an amateur, that much was evident right off the bat. We were fuzzy and distant, the flash barely reaching our faces. But I quickly recognized the water buffalo-style haircut of my Homecoming date, Brent Bronson. His hair had the unfortunate color and consistency of shredded wheat, and his face was adorned with a childish dusting of light brown freckles. I took in the innocent placement of his hand on my shoulder. We looked more like cousins than a couple.
“I cannot, in fact, believe how madly in love I was with that doofus,” I laughed in response to her rhetorical question. “Look at how he’s holding me, like someone’s going to beat him if he gets fresh.”
Adrianne laughed and reminded me, “He would’ve gotten beaten. Dad took that picture, remember? He hated Brent so much because he was on the baseball team instead of the debate team.”
“I do remember! He even told him that I’d be allowed to stay an hour later if he’d forgo one practice to come to a debate!”
We both laughed at the memory of our father’s quirkiness. He was still in charge of the debate team at the high school, but a bit of the wind had come out of his sails when all his kids graduated and he was stuck with the painful new generations that followed. At every family dinner he was sure to remind us that now all the kids wanted to discuss were the dangers of texting while driving, or how the drinking age should be lowered to eighteen.
“What ever happened to Sir Water Buffalo?” my sister asked, distractedly separating the pictures into neat piles in an arc in front of her crossed legs.
I tossed the old photo back into the pile of unorganized, unsortable images. “Hell if I know. He moved away halfway through sophomore year, and we haven’t exchanged so much as an instant message since then. I am sure he came together nicely, though. He had an older brother who was absolutely gorgeous.”
Adrianne snorted. “Good looks aren’t necessarily genetic. You got the short stick in our family, remember?” She laughed and nudged me playfully. I laughed as well, knowing that we were both gorgeous, and had no reason to take such playful jabs to heart.
I stood and excused myself. I stopped in the kitchen for some Fritos, and returned to my spot on the couch. It was still warm, thankfully. I pressed play on the DVR and watched the reality mayhem unfold before me. At least it was someone else looking for a chance at “love”, and not me. As far as it applied to me, Love was a truckload of horse shit. But sure enough, I checked my phone once more before getting comfortable.

I woke two hours later to the sound of Daniel’s booming voice in the foyer of the house. “Girls! There are seven deer in the front yard! You gotta see this!” I sat up slowly and somewhat grudgingly. I swiped at my eyes to dislodge any sleep that had congealed in the corners, and pulled myself off the couch. At the top of the stairs I looked down at Daniel, who was peering out the front window. From up here, his bald spot was embarrassingly obvious, despite all his attempts at hiding it. My heart warmed for the man. All the money in the world and he still couldn’t keep his lush black locks from leaving him.
“They still out there?” I asked quietly as I began descending the stairs.
Daniel turned and looked up at me. “Yeah, I think one of them is a boy. He’s got little tiny antlers,” he mused, moving aside so I could join him at the window.
“I can’t believe they didn’t run away when you pulled in,” I whispered, watching the seven elegant creatures browse the vegetation in the front yard for something that appealed to them. I probably shouldn’t have spoken, because in the next breath, Adrianne’s rumbling Mustang GT came with a vengeance down the street, startling the deer into motion. They darted around the side of the house and were gone.
I laughed at the irony before saying, “I didn’t even know she was gone. She didn’t wake me to tell me she was leaving.”
Daniel shrugged and pulled open the front door to go greet his wife. I watched from the doorway as they kissed on the sidewalk, and as Daniel offered to help carry the groceries she had procured from the store. They walked up the sidewalk, heads bowed and voices low. I held the door for them as they came inside. They hardly acknowledged me as they made their way to the kitchen to begin preparing dinner. I closed the door quietly, but not before noticing an eighth deer standing at the edge of the front yard. Its deep chocolate eyes fixed on me.
“What are you making for dinner?” I asked as I ambled into the spacious, chrome kitchen. I rested my elbows on the granite countertops and watched as Daniel and Adrienne began their elegant waltz about the room as they prepared dinner. I loved this about them.
“Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s better than the frozen Banquet dinner that awaits you at your house,” Daniel offered, pointing a zucchini in my direction.
Adrienne came to my defense and smacked him lightly on the rear end with a clump of some green herb I couldn’t name. “You’re eating with us,” she commanded. “I’m making veal and acorn squash. Have a seat and I’ll pour you a glass of wine.”
Part of the reason I loved visiting my sister was the unabashed wealth and luxury in which she lived. Part of it was the particular closeness we shared, and the willingness with which Daniel accepted our closeness. Another part was that I never went without offers of food and alcohol for more than a couple hours. Perhaps the biggest part of all was the fact that my own apartment was a shitty hole in the wall downtown, where the traffic and noise were unbearable, and all I had to entertain myself was a ridiculous amount of books, and a pet snake. Daniel was almost dead on with his Banquet dinner taunt. When he said it, my mind flashed to the image of my freezer, chock full of Hungry Man dinners.
I took a seat and thanked my sister when she poured me a glass of Yellowtail. I sipped it slowly, secretly wanting to get smashed, but deciding to wait until after dinner to attempt it. It wasn’t uncommon for Adrienne and I to go through a bottle or two after Daniel had gone to bed. As the alcohol danced down my tongue and into my stomach, I thought fleetingly of Nick. It was a bitter memory. We’d been drinking Yellowtail the night he made a complete ass of himself in front of my mother and father. With the next sip, I urged myself to forget about him.

“Think of all the times this jerk has fucked you up and left you down,” Adrienne said quietly, almost reverently, as she looked out at the not-so-humble lake upon which her house was situated. We were sitting on the back steps, each holding a frosty glass of tequila, blended with a little strawberry margarita mix and ice to lessen the burn of the alcohol.
I took a long pull from the beverage and placed it on the stair beside me. I crossed my arms over my knees and looked at my sister for a long time. I knew she’d just quoted Saves the Day, and for a moment I was confused. Nick and I both boasted a love for the band, but it took me a bit to recall that Adrianne was the one who had introduced me to the quartet in the first place.
“Do I have to?” I almost whispered.
Adrienne looked at me with her soft, aqua eyes. “Rebbie. It was a bad relationship. Everyone could see it but you guys.” She took a drink of her booze-soaked ice and winced the tiniest bit. I had always handled my hard liquor better than my little sister. I had always been disappointed by this, but had never told her.
“Everyone could see it?” I asked, genuinely surprised by this offering. I thought of all the occasions Nick and I had met my friends at the bar, and he had hovered around the juke box or the pool table the whole night. I thought of countless family gatherings we’d left early because he felt sick, or tired, or bored. Maybe she was right. His antisocial behavior would have been a very good indicator of a rocky relationship, had I been on the outside looking in, as opposed to submerged in it.
Adrienne kept her oceanic eyes on me and nodded very subtly. “I hate to say it, but Mom and I always worried you’d end up with him. We were this close to placing bets on whether or not you’d get married.” She paused, and started, and paused again, as if debating whether her next tidbit would be too hurtful. Apparently the alcohol had already loosened her tongue. “I would be a hundred bucks richer now if we had.” A hint of a smile touched her thin lips before she rested her glass against them again and took a drink.
I hung my head between my knees and mumbled, “It isn’t necessarily over. He could still…” I let it linger, not sure what it was Nick would have to do to mend the gaping hole in our generally holey relationship.
“Get an entirely new personality and outlook on life? Cut the goddamn umbilical cord?” my sister offered crudely.
I jerked my head in her direction. “No fair. His mom is a fantastic woman. She’s like eight times better than our mom. But don’t tell her.”
Adrianne made a gesture of zipping her lips closed and tossing the pull tab. She then opened her lips again and drank more comically red liquid. My mind jumped to a premonition image of my little sister vomiting red-stained veal chunks all over the expensive stained steps. When she’d finished and placed it loosely on the surface beneath us, I subtly took her glass and moved it to my far side, next to my own condensation-drenched drink.
“Fantastic, but she’s not strong enough to tell him to grow up.”
“She’s strong,” I argued, before asking myself why I was defending this woman. I paused and considered, knowing full well it was because for at least a few months I had been hoping she’d become my mother-in-law. Now that seemed a distant pipe dream. It wasn’t in Nick’s nature to let his pride step aside for logic, or even love. I took a long, long pull from the aggressive red spirit. When I’d finished I let out a loud, decidedly unladylike belch. Adrienne offered an air applause and leaned her head on my shoulder.
“I just want you to be happy, Rebecca. I want to see you with someone who worships you. I want you to find your Daniel.”
I smiled at the last sentence. I turned and gently kissed her downy crown. I loved how soft Adrienne’s hair was. It always smelled like fresh fruit, too. Raspberries filled my nostrils and I wrapped an arm around her crooked back. “I know,” I breathed. “Bed time.”


“I’ll get the rope from in the house, survey the scene, finding two of the tallest trees. And I’ll tie myself up above the cruel earth to dangle in the twilight.” I couldn’t resist singing along whole-heartedly with words I could so easily imagine myself acting out. I thought of myself dangling by the neck and of course wondered how Bex would react when she found out. I got a sick, selfish thrill at the image of her sobbing over my casket and considered dialing my mother again.
She hated when I talked about ending my life. She didn’t get emotional or play into my shameless inquiries about who she thought would attend my funeral service. Rather, she’d take the logical course of action. On more than one occasion she’d said, “Please, Nick. I can’t afford a funeral right now. You’ll spend eternity looking up at those hideous sheets your Aunt Hetta gave us if you off yourself now.” Not surprisingly, the idea of teal paisley resting over my eyes forever was enough to keep the rope coiled in the garage and me sulking in my room.
So I had taken to heavy drinking and video gaming, always simultaneously. I was, of course, completely useless and wretched at computer games when my mind was botched by liquor and the ever-present memories of Bex. It was just convenient to have something to do with my hands and eyes. My favorite was Tetris. I found the old-school version most comforting. If I got wasted enough I could almost revert to the time before I met Bex, when I was a pimply, lanky, obnoxious 13-year-old first discovering the wonder and amazement that was computer animated games.
I nodded my head from side to side to the electronic cover of the Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies. I picked up the bottle of bitch beer from beside my couch and tipped it back. It was empty. Rather than pause the game, I set the controller on the cushion and walked unsteadily to the fridge in the kitchen. At some point between the couch and the counter, I heard the falling sound that meant I’d lost the game. Talk about an understatement. I yanked open the refrigerator door and grabbed another drink. Using the hem of my t-shirt, I untwisted the cap and let it fall to the linoleum floor. I’d pick it up in the morning.
I returned to the couch and placed the new, frosty beverage on the end table. Rather than starting another game of Tetris, I put in a racing game. When it became evident I couldn’t even keep my little hover car on the track, I turned that game off, too. The biggest downside of having the whole X Box world at my fingertips, was the presence of a little folder called “Photos”. I absentmindedly navigated to it and selected to open it. In seconds, my screen and my mind were filled with photos of Bex. Candid photos, formal photos, photos I had forgotten about over the course of the last four years. I felt my eyes well up when I came upon a gorgeous picture of Bex sitting in silhouette, the sun setting in front of her.
With one push of a button, the whole console powered down and I was left staring at the clear blue screen. No distractions anymore. Nothing to take my mind off the gaping hole where Bex belonged. I drained the bottle of lemonade-flavored malt beverage and clumsily found my way to my bed. I fell asleep and didn’t think another thing until late the next morning.

I wasn’t surprised when I woke up in a hazy cloud of penetrable pain. Everything from my hair line to my hips ached with the uncomfortable recollection of all the alcohol I’d consumed the night before. I was lying on my stomach on Adrianne’s couch, one half of my body drooping to the floor. The television was on, but the sound was muted. It was some DIY show about refinishing a deck. I groaned and groped blindly for the remote control, so I could kill the power. Even the dull hum of the electricity powering the screen was making my head throb.
I grabbed, instead, my cell phone. I pressed the number 5 several times before realizing it wasn’t the remote. My motor skills were lacking in a big way, so I switched my phone to my other hand and reached again for the remote. I found it and pressed the red power button at the top. The TV went out like a light and my head immediately felt a tiny bit better. I turned my attention to the phone in my hand, and felt my heart still when I read “1 New Message”. The tiny picture of Nick in the bottom right corner made my stomach gurgle and churn. I knew I didn’t want to see the contents of the message, but I knew I’d never forgive myself if I deleted it without first reading the words he’d taken the time to send.
“imagine the one thing you wanted from life, the thing you saw yourself doing in 50 years, your everything—was impossible. unachievable. what would you do?”
I stared at the glowing screen, my eyebrows knit together. I could feel the desperation in his words. I understood his pain, but I didn’t know what to do about it. I took a deep breath and hit “reply”. I typed out a message, something honest and inspirational. But I knew if I sent it, it would give Nick false hope. I bit my lip, re-read the message I’d just typed, and hit the “end” button. I wasn’t ready to respond to him. He wasn’t ready to hear from me. I groaned, turned over, and fell back asleep.

rice

I considered making flyers. “Lost: Soul” perhaps. Or maybe “Lost: Will to Live”. I could paste them around town. My little brother would help. I imagined him pumping his legs, pedaling from street light to street light, flyers and tape in his bicycle basket. I couldn’t offer a reward, though. And people really only notice those flyers if they say REWARD in bold, black lettering across the bottom. Not to mention, I didn’t have any contact information. The parents had confiscated my cell phone in what they deemed a valiant and necessary punishment. Like they’d never snuck out of their parents’ house. Like they’d never smoked weed.
I studied the layout of my bedroom for what felt like the millionth time. Beanbag in the corner, tye-dye fabric. Posters of Marley and McQueen on the far wall. An enormous Pioneer stereo and speakers on the floor by the door. And the giant void in the wall across from my bed, where my tv had been before my father had calmly come in and wordlessly removed it. What I wouldn’t give to watch Comedy Central right now.
When my room wasn’t providing me any new entertainment, I decided to check in on Cale. I opened my door slowly and quietly, to make sure Mom and Dad weren’t puppy guarding me. When I found the upstairs hall to be empty, I tip-toed out and stopped before Cale’s door. I didn’t bother knocking. What 8-year-old needs privacy? I pushed the door open and found him lying on his bed, headphones on, eyes transfixed by whatever he was watching on his laptop. I watched him for a minute or two, watched the way his abnormally masculine eyebrows arched and fell with whatever material he was watching. It was something he was familiar with, because his bow lips kept moving around the spaces in his teeth, echoing the dialogue in a whisper. I smiled at how precious he could be, and made my presence known by sitting on the edge of the bed.
Cale removed his headphones and pushed the space bar to pause his show. “Hey Rice,” he said by way of greeting. “What’s up?”
“This house arrest bullshit is killing me,” I grumbled before throwing myself onto my back and taking up the majority of the queen-size bed.
Cale sighed and closed the lid of his laptop computer. He placed it gently on the floor and followed my lead. He lay with his feet near the head of the bed, and his head was somewhere by my knees. We looked like a yin-and-yang, me with my pale skin and grey eyes; him with his black hair and tanned complexion. “It’s only been two days,” he said after a decent pause.
“How long am I supposed to be grounded for again?”
“Three weeks,” he replied somberly.
“Fuck.”
“Language.”
“Sorry,” I groaned, forgetting that my brother was still only eight. Sometimes he seemed so grown up. On more than one occasion my parents had to talk me out of taking him to high school football games and dances on account of his tender age. “What am I going to do?” I asked with a desperate hitch in my voice.
Cale seemed to think about it for a time. “You could read a book. I’ve got tons I bet you’d like.”
Rather than shoot down the idea right away, as was my initial impulse, I decided to give him a chance. “Oh yeah? Like which ones?”
He sat up without effort and walked across the room to a large bookshelf. “Basically everything on the shelves above my head,” he said, indicating the top two shelves. “Mom doesn’t think I can reach them, but she’s not very bright. The ones on the top shelf, left side have a lot of sex and stuff, but the rest are pretty mild.” He removed one of the paperbacks and walked back to the bed. “This is one of my favorites,” he said reverently, handing me the novel.
The cover was soft and smooth, and I read the title. “‘The Scorpion House’? you really think this is my speed? I mean, I sometimes have a hard time getting through Cosmo,” I said doubtfully.
He looked at me heavily through his dark chocolate eyes. “I think you need to raise your expectations of yourself, Rice. There’s a lot of good stuff out there you’re going to miss out on if you don’t just try opening your mind.”
I laughed and shook my head. “You’re a prodigy, brother.”
The corner of his mouth raised in a smirk and he nodded in agreement. “Yeah, so they’ve told me. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a documentary to get back to.” He retrieved his laptop from the floor and looked at me expectantly.
“What’s it about?” I asked, kneading the new book he’d given me.
“Polar ice caps,” he said with finality before slipping his headphones back on and giving me a small wave.
With a smile, I shook my head and mouthed “thank you”, indicating the book he’d lent me. I stood and left his room. Halfway back to my own bedroom, however, my father caught me. I held my breath and awaited another tongue-lashing.
“Rice,” he said without pretence. He had used my nickname. That was a good indication. I nodded, “Dad.”
“You wanna go to Lowe’s with me?” he asked.
I looked down at the book in my hands, and considered spending x amount of hours locked in my bedroom. “Yeah, let me just put this book away.” I ducked into my bedroom and placed the novel on top of my bedspread. I made sure nothing had been left on, and closed the door behind me. I followed my dad down the stairs and out to his Trail Blazer in the garage.

valencia

The bad news came in the form of a letter. It was written in my brother's flawless calligraphy on thick, yellowed parchment tied by a pink ribbon. After reading it, I stared at that ribbon and felt a surge of irony jolt through me. I dropped the page to the table. I rested my head in my hands like the mourning statue I kept by my bed. It was an image I was intimately familiar with.
I didn't like the idea of leaving my home again. I didn't like the knowledge that no matter how many times I was there for my siblings, risking my life, no shred of gratitude would ever be shown. No favor would ever be returned. But he was family, and no matter how many times I told myself not to, I loved him. I took a deep breath and prayed to the gods for the strength and presence of mind to successfully complete yet another journey.
I would leave, as always, in the middle of the night, when the moon was highest in the sky. I would take only my thickest, warmest cloak, and the knife with the ruby handle my mother had given me when I became a woman. I knew there would be danger involved. There always was.
After I'd finished my humble dinner and cleaned up my small home, I dressed for the journey. I tied the pale pink ribbon in my hair and pulled the hood of my cloak over my head. I would blend in with the night. My journey would be swift and silent, and gods-willing, over quickly. I left my small stone house and ventured into the darkness. Not ten strides out my front door I was met by an unexpected visitor. A snow owl swept from a high tree and landed on the frosted ground before me. I hissed at the bird, trying to scare it out of my path. "Bird, you will give me away! My enemy will have no trouble sighting me if the light of the very moon is my companion."
The owl cocked her hoary head as if trying to understand.
"Be gone!"
The owl scraped her talon feet against the earth. She looked up at me with large, telling eyes. Then, "Do not worry about your opposition. I come to show you the path you must follow to Valencia. For that is where you will find your niece."
So the owl could speak! And she knew of my story and the voyage at hand. The letter I'd received had been from my eldest brother, Levi. His daughter Jolee had been taken by Loriana, the evil one-eyed monster who had power in Valencia. Levi had begged me to rescue the child as I had proven my ability in such situations time and time again. I listened to the owl.
"Do not think of walking, human. Grab hold of my [tail feathers] and I will carry you to Valencia. What meets you there is greater, I fear, than you anticipate."
Before taking hold of the great feathers I asked the fowl, "Who sent you?"
"Your grandmother, Evangeline. She watches over you still from beyond this world. She has entrusted me with the honorable task of serving as your guardian spirit."
So with no further discussion, I took the feathers in hand and was swept up into the night. The owl soared above mountains, enormous and mysterious in the moonlight. She soared over snake rivers and arrowhead forests. I watched with wonder as we traveled the quick route to Valencia .
The dawn was breaking on the Northern horizon when our flight was finished. A pale purple light washed over the valley. The earth felt solid beneath my feet. But it was also hot with the anticipation of what the day held for me in my quarrel against the monster Loriana. I had heard terrible things of her in my travels. I had heard her kingdom was made from the bones of children. Her soldiers were fathers who had been taken from their families and put under a wicked spell to do her will and none else. I didn't doubt either story as my feathered companion and I approached the gates of Valencia.
I gazed at the thick doors and vowed that my niece's skull would not become a knob or knocker. She would be returned to my brother unscathed, no matter what it took. I opened the door to the city and braced myself.
To my alarm, the city was all but deserted. I saw a huddle of men in front of a fruit stand speaking and laughing. They didn't look like victims of a wicked spell at all. I shot the owl a curious look and decided to approach the group of men.
"Excuse me, men!"
They turned to me. Their eyes grew bright at the sight of me. "'Lo, woman," one spoke. "What brings you to Valencia?"
His eyes were the color of the sky on a stormy day. Grey and pale and knowing. "I am here to rescue my niece Jolee from the monster Loriana. I hear she rules Valencia."
The man laughed. The others looked ad me as if I'd missed out on some wonderful joke or tale. He placed a broad hand on my shoulder. "Loriana has been defeated already. Your work here was finished before it began!"
I was startled to learn this from the huddle of soldiers. I looked at the owl for some guidance but her beak was closed tightly. Her large eyes stared forward.
"Good sir, how was she defeated? And what has come of my Jolee?"
The man circled me now, eyeing me up and down. "You have the build of a warrior. I think your niece may have more of you in her than you know."
"What do you mean?" I implored, growing uneasy under his penetrating eyes.
He stopped circling and locked his eyes on mine. "Jolee defeated the monster with a single kiss and a slash of her hand. She is gone. The spell over me and my men is broken. Again, woman, your work is complete."
I swallowed hard. Could it be a trap? I looked again to the owl. She stared forward still, refusing to meet my gaze. I wanted to kick her, part in frustration, but mainly just so she'd pay attention to me.
"Sir, what is your name?" I asked.
He bowed his head to me. "Dalyn... of Prima. At your service, maiden."
"Have you a family in Prima?"
A dark look crossed Dalyn's face. "Not anymore, good woman. They were killed when Loriana came through the city many years ago. It's just me and my men." His tone changed then. "It would be a welcome pleasure to have a beauty like you in my life."
I shied away from his touch and asked where I could find the child. "Follow me, woman. We are going to the center of town. Those faithful to Loriana have been kind enough to lay her body out for the mice and birds to worship." A mischievous look crossed his handsome face. I felt the strange desire to follow him to the center of the city--and the ends of the earth.
So we went to the center of town. I saw with my own eyes the massive body of Loriana. I felt a pang of sorrow, but it was because someone else had done my job. I swept the courtyard for the familiar face of my niece. I still couldn't locate her.
"Dalyn?" I asked, addressing him by name for the first time.
He nodded and approached the carcass of the monster. He spoke to one of the small birds that was already pecking at her flesh. "Bird, where will I find the warrior child, Jolee?"
I watched with surprise as the young crow responded to his inquiry. "You'll find her in the garden, crying for her father. A hummingbird I know saw her there only moments ago."
"Thank you," Dalyn replied, as if the creature knew manners. He then led me to the garden of which the bird had spoken. When I saw her tight black curls bobbing among the lilies, I felt my heart soar in my chest. I ran to the child.
"Jolee!" I cried as I came upon her. I felt my heart crack when she raised her face to me. It was streaked with tears. I swept her into my arms and kissed her several times. "Poor baby, what has happened to you?"
She showed me the flesh beneath her tiny fingernails. She cried that she couldn't scrape it out. She felt dirty with the monster so close to her all the time. I took her tiny hands in mine and pulled the ruby-handled knife from inside my cloak. I gently carved the monster's skin from beneath the child's nails. When I was finished, I handed the knife to her.
"You, Jolee, are a great warrior. My use for such a fine weapon is no more. Take this blade and do with it the work you were unable to finish with your hands."
Jolee took the knife into the center of town. She cut off the head of the one-eyed monster and we lit the body on fire, a sacrifice to our gods. As we stood in the hot red glow of the fire, Dalyn fell to one knee and asked me to be his bride. And though I had only known him a matter of hours, I felt the word "Absolutely" escape my lips.
Jolee grew to be a firm and beautiful warrior. I never served another summon for my siblings or anyone else. Instead, I returned to Prima with my husband and lived the quiet life I had always longed for. I wrapped my mourning statue in a handkerchief and tied it with the pink ribbon. I buried it beneath a stone in the yard, and I never thought of it again.

electrolux

The children were sleeping. She’d already cleaned the dining room where they’d just had their lunch. The dishes were drying on their wire rack beside the sink. She turned off all the lights on the main floor and sat by the window. Bees were hovering around the new tulips in the backyard. They didn’t look like “busy bees” to her. She knew busy.
She called her boyfriend in Pittsburgh. He told her he was having another 13-hour day in hell, he would text her later. Not knowing what else to do with herself, she masturbated quickly and quietly in the downstairs bathroom. She imagined her boyfriend’s flawless lips on her clitoris as she came. She washed her hands.
A school bus drove by. The children went ape-shit for school buses. They wouldn’t even mind that it was the short bus, just so long as it was goldenrod and rolling. They loved school buses. They also loved trucks, and any vehicle moving in reverse.
She sat listlessly on the couch and wished half-heartedly her life could travel in reverse. She was in such a limbo at this nanny job. She made excellent money—under the table, of course. And she was busy, occupied, working 50 hours a week. She was able to drive to see her boyfriend every weekend, and he her. She had her own apartment.
But to her it all felt so typical. So normal and so goddamn redundant. Monday through Friday: feed the kids, clothe the kids, clean up after the kids. Break up a fight, read the same four Curious George books over and over. Go back to her empty flat and wish for the 15 thousandth time that it weren’t empty. The weekends were undoubtedly better, but just as predictable. A two-hour drive, dinner, phenomenal sex, sex, sex. Drive home in time for work.
She held her cell phone tightly in her hand, willing it to buzz with news from someone—anyone. It sat silent and stoic. Nobody would involve her in their life on a day as glorious and warm and clear as this day was. They were all sunbathing or playing Ultimate Frisbee, or suffering the injustices of their own day jobs.
She was sitting, staring out the window, thinking all these thoughts about her mediocre life, when her phone finally buzzed. An unfamiliar number with an untraceable area code danced on the blue-white screen. She selected to open the message. It read: Go to the basement.
Not a chance, she replied instantly.
Trust me, no harm will befall you. Her interest was piqued, as words like “befall” were rare in her cell phone’s inbox. And she was a trusting person. So she stood from the sofa and opened the accordion door that led to the basement she rarely had occasion to enter. It looked as quiet and un-foreboding as always, so she placed a foot on the top step. No harm befell her, so she walked smoothly down the remaining stairs. At the bottom, however, she noticed a slight difference in the basement décor. Rather than the late-90s washer and dryer that had stood to the left since her employment began, the family had installed a set of those monstrously large Electrolux washing/drying machines. She stepped forward to inspect.
When she was within arm’s reach of the washing machine, her phone vibrated again. At this point she became acutely aware of some supernatural force coming into play, as the basement had always been a hopeless dead zone.
This message: See if you can fit.
She was about to send back a sarcastic response when a second message popped up: No harm will befall you. Just try.
So she pulled open the bubbled door, and was surprised at just how big the machine looked from this angle. Text or no, she probably would have wondered at her ability to fit inside the machine. Of course, she knew better. But she couldn’t imagine a single reason why she, a responsible and mostly-grown woman shouldn’t go head-first into an industrial-sized automatic laundry basin.
The reason became very clear the moment the door slammed closed behind her and the machine seemed to turn itself on. The basin she was encased in began turning slowly and she knew the water would flood in and wash away her life at any moment. She wasn’t afraid of dying. She was, most irrationally, afraid of her employers firing her when she failed to retrieve the children from their nap.
The phone buzzed a final time: Hold on.
The basin began turning faster and faster, turning her head-over-bottom a hundred times before she seemed to lose consciousness.

“Ma’am, you really don’t belong inside the washing equipment. Not only is it a safety hazard, but it’s a poor example for the other customers.” She looked up to see who was addressing her, but was met by a great pot belly. She craned her neck to see his face, but only made it as far as his “Lowe’s Home Improvement” nametag before he crouched down and looked her in the eyes. “Do you need help getting out?”
He was old. Too old to be working at Lowe’s, in her opinion. His shaggy grey hair made her guess mid-fifties before she noticed his astonishing green eyes and his clean white smile. “You alright?” he asked quietly, with more kindness than he had used when first addressing her.
“I don’t know where I am,” she stated, before realizing that she did, in fact, know she was in an Electrolux washing machine, which was inside a Lowe’s Home Improvement store. She corrected, “I don’t know how I got here.”
The man pursed his lips. “This is going to be fun,” he said before reaching out a medium-sized hand to help her climb out.
When she stood, she found that she was very close to the man’s height, and that was saying something, as she was only 5’2”. “Thanks,” she mumbled before looking down at her body and making sure everything was intact and where it belonged. She remembered the phone in her hand and checked it for any new messages. His name is ¬¬Eli. You can trust him. The message startled her. She couldn’t imagine why she would need to trust this man for anything more than showing her the quickest route to exit the store. She turned to the older man.
“Eli?” she offered.
He raised his dark eyebrows. “Yes?”
“What’s the quickest way out of this store?”
He considered it a moment. “Well that depends on where you want to go.” He looked into her deep brown eyes with his vibrant green ones. “Do you know where you want to go?”
She checked her cell phone, but no new instructions had buzzed in. She shrugged her shoulders and told Eli the only thing she could think: “I trust you.”
At this, he smiled again. When he smiled he looked like a rough 40, if that. She decided she liked him, and found it easy to trust him. “We’d better make haste, then,” Eli said, taking her hand and leading her past the lawn mowers and propane grills to the door marked EXIT.
She cast her eyes once more around the interior of the store. It was just a normal Lowe’s, complete with customers and employees and, well, home improvement products. She watched the automatic doors glide open with a hiss, and followed Eli as he stepped through them.

The doors led to a train platform, of all places. She looked down and saw that she was still holding Eli’s calloused hand. She followed his arm up to his body, and discovered he was no longer dressed as a Lowe’s employee, but was wearing a three-piece suit and a pocket watch. His hair was different: still long, but combed back from his face, and darker somehow. He turned to look at her with a satisfied smile on his mouth.
“What is this?” she asked, once again bringing the obvious to the table.
“It’s a train station, m’dear.”
“Yes, but where are we going?” The phone buzzed in her hand. Go shopping. You look very foolish in that outfit. She looked down at her outfit and couldn’t help but agree with the mysterious texter. What had been a very casual pair of jeans and tennis shoes now looked embarrassingly out of place in contrast to the skirts and bustles and dresses she was seeing on the women milling about the platform.
“We’re going shopping,” Eli said quietly. “Our train doesn’t leave for another hour or so.”
They exited the train station onto a busy street in what appeared to be Buffalo, NY several years before. They walked swiftly down the road and found a Sears Roebuck. They ducked inside and Eli was very efficient in helping her find a more suitable outfit. They selected a skirt and blouse combination, and Eli was showing her the lace-up boots when she felt it necessary to protest.
“I’m not wearing lace-up boots. The skirt is long enough to cover my Vans. Let’s just get out of here.”
Eli looked at her with soft eyes and said that would be fine. He purchased the outfit and waited patiently while she put it on over her jeans and t-shirt. He consulted his pocket watch and asked if she’d like to grab something to eat before heading back to the station. She declined politely as she tucked in her blouse. She felt foolish, but at least she looked like she belonged.
When they’d returned to the train station and found a wrought-iron bench on which to wait, she decided it was time to start asking questions. She crossed her feet at the ankles, as she had seen a woman in the department store doing. She placed her hands in her lap and tried to look like any other Buffalonian woman waiting for her train. She nudged Eli with her elbow as he sat beside her.
“Yes?” he asked, turning to look at her with those clear, round emeralds.
She whispered as she spoke, not wanting to interest any of the other travelers nearby. “What’s going on?”
“We’re waiting for our train.”
“I’m getting tired of your Captain Obvious answers. Can you just tell me what is happening? How’d we get here, and why are we leaving? Where are we going?”
Eli smiled with his lips closed and turned to address her more comfortably. His voice was lowered as well. “You needed a break in the monotony. Am I right?”
She shrugged. “Well, yeah. But I was thinking something along the lines of a road trip with my boyfriend.”
He nodded his understanding. “I’m sure you’ve heard the old Mick Jagger adage, ‘You can’t always get what you want . . . but you may find, you get what you need.’”
“Yes, I’m familiar with the song. Tell me what I need, then.”
“Well, when you went into the washing machine, you went back in time. Not very far, mind you. Only two or three months. But when we left the store, we zipped back about seventy. Guess they didn’t want you traveling such a great distance alone.”
“They?”
“Whoever’s on the other end of that phone of yours,” Eli replied pleasantly, indicating the device in her hands.
She looked at it, and then back at Eli. “You mean you don’t even know who’s been texting me?”
Eli shook his head and retrieved his own cell phone from the pocket of his pin-striped pants. He used his thumbs to navigate through the menu for a moment before holding it up to her. Take Mia where she needs to go, read the message on his screen. The number was the same as on her phone.
Mia sat back, feeling a little defeated knowing her guide was only being guided by the same mysterious individual that had guided her so foolishly into the washing machine in the first place. She shook her head slowly. “Well, why’d you listen if you don’t know who it is?”
Eli seemed to consider this for a long time. “Two reasons. I am a nice person. I would help any wayward young woman from the clutches of a washing machine. And second, I’ve been looking for some adventure of my own for a while. It’s not cool to be working at Lowe’s when you’re thirty-two years old.”
Mia’s breath caught in her chest. He was only eight years older than her! “So you’re an actual Lowe’s employee? It wasn’t just another costume, like you’re wearing now?”
Eli smiled sadly. “Nope. No costume. I have been at that job since I started college.” He had a far-away look in his eyes and Mia felt a tinge of regret on his behalf. If nannying at 24 was bad, she couldn’t imagine cashiering at 32.
They were quiet a moment, both lost in the thoughts that come from being older than you want with less life experience than you’d prefer. “Any idea where this train’s headed?”
Eli glanced at his own cell phone. “The past, I guess. Can’t imagine how much further back we can go on this continent, though.”
They didn’t say anything else until the train pulled into the station. Eli helped her up the step, and allowed her to take the seat by the window, which she thought was very kind. They sat side-by-side and watched the old Buffalo scenery fly by the window. They were heading east, that much was clear. They were going faster than any 1940s steam engine should probably be capable of going, but they both knew better than to doubt the kind of powers that were at hand. As the train chugged into colonial-era New York City—or New Amsterdam as it probably was at this point, Mia was filled with excitement for the first time. She had never been to NYC, as it was.
The moment they stepped off the train, the large engine and all their fellow travelers disappeared behind them. Eli cast her a puzzling look, and she returned it. They took hands again and walked into the glorified town that would later become the greatest city on earth.

vampire jane

“I want to die,” she whispered, looking up into his cloudy grey eyes, taking note of the careful, cautious way his firm hands were holding her up. She whispered it again. “This is what I want.”
He shook his head so slightly it was almost imperceptible. “Jane,” he spoke her name for the millionth time, still savoring the way it tasted on his tongue. If he could assign it a color, it would be pale lavender. It would disappear like cotton candy and leave a lingering sweetness on the lips. “If you go, I go. I don’t think I’m ready.”
Her soft carnation lips tugged into a subtle, amused smile. “But . . .” she paused to gasp for air. He held her tighter. “But you did this to me.”
He cast his storm cloud eyes to the impossibly large cavern in her chest. It looked like a meteor had landed violently above her left breast. In its wake he could see shards of her thin ribs, pieces of tendons hanging like electrical wires across the gaping hole in her body. If he allowed himself to think logically, he would realize with painful clarity that there was no way to bring her back from this place.
“Please, Jane.” A traitorous tear trickled down the slope of his creased cheek. He blinked furiously.
It was Jane’s turn to shake her head. The gesture was slight, but undeniable. “I am going now. This is on your head, my love. This is on your head. You took my heart. You took . . .”
Before the sentence was completed, her eyes clouded over. The honey sparkle was gone from them, and the glisten of moisture that had been present since her first day on earth was suddenly gone. Her eyeballs took on a matte finish that caused Jared’s stomach to tighten and twist. Her body was small in his arms, but heavy with the weight of blood and bones and muscles that no longer have a soul to carry them.
For hours, he knelt there, holding her limp form in his strong, shaking arms. For hours, he relived every moment of their life together. For hours, he sobbed as he felt the heat leave her body, until the words “corpse” and “carcass” and “stiff” were personified by this shell that used to be his Jane. It was well after two a.m. when there was a cautious knock on the bedroom door.
His usually strong voice betrayed him as it hitched and cracked halfway through his call of, “Who is it?”
“Jared,” she began. “It’s time.”
He hung his heavy head over the remains of Jane. He squeezed out one final tear, and watched in sorrow as it fell through the gap in her chest and landed on the back of her ribcage. The bloody surface glistened with the memory of moisture before it dried a crusty, scabbed maroon once more.
“I am ready,” he croaked. He twisted his legs from beneath her form, and slid his arms out from under the solid, icy casing of her once-welcoming back. He couldn’t help but remember the countless times he’d run his broad hands over the sinews and muscles of that back. How he’d counted the vertebrae affectionately, and pointed out the places where she had tension knots. He shook, as if racked again with sobs. But his eyes were dry now. There would be no more tears.
He stood tersely and looked once more at the great hollow hole in the chest of the body that once belonged to Jane. In two great steps he was at the dresser with the vanity mirror. He wouldn’t allow himself to lift his eyes to his reflection, but he pulled open the top drawer and quickly extracted what he was looking for.
He lifted the oak jewelry box in both his hands, not risking letting it tip or fall. He admired for the hundredth time the intricate etchings on the top of the little case. He was not alarmed to find that the wood was still warm against his palms, as if it had been sitting out in the August sun, rather than tucked away in an attic room for several months. He lowered his nose to the hinged lid, and breathed in the cherry scent of the velvet fabric that lined the box. With his hip, he scooted the vanity drawer closed, and still avoiding his shameful reflection, he stepped over Jane’s body, and left the room.
In the living room, an alarming amount of candles were glittering and glowing, casting their flickering light over the somber faces of all those gathered for the ceremony. Jared considered briefly the likelihood of this great amount of candles setting off those new-fangled smoke alarms Jane had insisted they install in the house. He decided there were far more pressing matters at hand, and he turned to his mother at the head of the table.
“You have it?” she asked, the excitement dancing in her diamond eyes. When Jared nodded, she reached her arms over the table, letting the drooping, gossamer sleeves of her dress drift dangerously close to the countless open flames. She wiggled her fingers as an over-eager child might do when being presented with a much-anticipated birthday gift.
Jared sighed to himself, and handed his mother the jewelry box. She reacted in much the same way he had, bringing the intricate trunk to her nose, breathing in the fragrant scent of the contents. His mother was far more interested than what the box held than what it was lined with. He watched, along with the rest of those gathered, as a smile split her ruby lips.
His mother pushed a few candles from the middle of the table, and rested the box in the center of the cleared space. With her long, ruby-tipped fingers she unclasped the latch, and carefully lifted the lid. She held her breath as she exposed the contents of the box. Jared felt a swell of energy in the room about them as the heart was exposed.
It was a beautiful thing, really. Everything about Jane had been beautiful. But especially this most vital organ of hers. It was a vibrant red, marbled with deep spots of brick red, and swells of pale pink tissue. It was a beautiful shape, as well. He watched with a very tangible pain as the organ continued beating within the confines of the oaken craftwork.
“Yah, tumah li mio loh tunandrah. Calumi, mio alloh cara,” his mother chanted in a voice so haunting and deep, Jared had to study her face to make sure she was emitting the dark, ominous sounds. Her lips curved and connected to create the words of the spell. He swallowed thickly.
The people gathered around him began to chant along with his mother, their voices not emulating quite the same emotions, but matching word-for-word, nonetheless. Jared moved his lips, but could not allow any sound to escape. His heart, all irony aside, was simply not in it.
To Jared’s left sat a man so old his skin had taken on a grey tone, along with his hair and eyes, which were watery and rimmed in an uncomfortable red. His nose was bulbous and hung remarkably close to his thin lips, which were moving to create the words Vie was speaking at the head of the table. His sun-spotted hands were clasped desperately and resting on the edge of the coffee table. Jared eyed them darkly, remembering all the times he had admired the high arches on Jane’s feet as she rested them in that very spot while she watched the evening news.
His mind ached with the memory of the way she’d looked at him hours before, as the life drifted from her. He felt the burn rising in his throat as her words flitted through his ears again. This is on your head. You took my heart. There was no denying he had done that. But he had asked her, first. He had asked and she had consented. But still, it didn’t take away the pain. Jared knew the tears would come again if he didn’t change the course of thoughts. His mother must have known the same thing, because just as a pool threatened to well over the rim of his eye, she called his name.
“Jared, Son of Vie, giver of Darkness,” she breathed in the same low, haunting voice. “Remove the organ from its tomb.”
Jared did as he was directed, and lifted Jane’s still-beating heart from the box. It was heavier than it looked, soaking his broad, capable hands with deep, cherry-red blood. He knew what was coming, and he doubted very much that he’d be able to go through with it.
“Now, Jared, lift the organ to thy lips and partake of the flesh of the Lover.” His stomach clenched as he saw the light in his mother’s diamond eyes. She nodded eagerly, as if this were the prompting a normal mother would make to her heart-broken son.
Jared swallowed thickly and ran his tongue over his lips. Maybe it would taste like Jane, he reasoned. Maybe it would taste like home. He opened his mouth and pressed his sharp teeth into the merciless surface of the heart. He applied pressure, and felt his pearly teeth break through the skin. His mouth filled with the hot, living flesh and blood of his late lover. His tongue was stained red. He closed his eyes and savored the flavor of her. He had been right. It was undoubtedly Jane. Had he not been surrounded by the dark creatures that had filled his nightmares as a youth, he probably would have gotten an erection at the vivid memory of all the times he’d tasted her so intimately before.
He opened his eyes and looked at his mother. She was radiantly beautiful when she sparkled that way, in the candlelight. Her auburn hair moved like water over her shoulders as she raised her hands, palms-up. “My Son,” she crooned, “Thou hast tasted of the flesh of the Lover. Pass the organ to Demetri, so that he, too, may relish the essence of the Heart.”
Reluctantly, Jared passed Jane’s now-still heart to the old, cryptic man to his left. He watched with something like jealousy as the man sunk his yellowed teeth into the beet flesh of the organ. Jared could feel Jane slipping from him all over again. He watched as the heart was passed from Demetri to Alonso, and from him to Mari and so on, until there was but a single bite of the heart left. Everyone’s hands were stained a glistening red, except for Vie’s. She smiled at her friends and family as she took the final bite between her long thumb and forefinger.
“And with this swallow, we shall make Him whole again,” she bellowed before tilting her swanlike neck back, and dropping the juicy red flesh between her juicy red lips. She chewed with almost theatrical relish. Her eyes closed in ecstasy as the blood ran down her throat, heating her icy stomach from the inside. “Join hands,” she commanded, eyes still closed.
Those gathered around the table followed her command and clasped hands one with another. Jared was alarmed at how strong Demetri’s fragile-seeming hands were. He closed his eyes and listened sadly as his mother chanted another string of dark magic.

hit man

“Goddamn it, Melinda! Where is it!” I had turned the bedroom inside-out looking for the journal. It was a small little thing, only 80 pages thick. Only about twenty of which had been written on. But this journal meant the world to me, and she knew it. Everyone knew it. I kept the thing in my pocket at all times. I had some of the most important conversations and ideas written in that little book.
“Don’t ask me! Why would I touch your bloody book? I haven’t seen it since you took it out at dinner with my parents last week.” She was scouring the breakfast dishes in the kitchen, and I knew she wouldn’t have taken it. I swallowed thickly and continued turning over couch cushions and opening cupboards in my vain search.
“Can’t you just buy another?” she asked softly, turning off the stream of water. She dried her hands on her blouse and came to where I was standing, frustrated, in the center of our living room.
“I can’t buy another one, Mel. There are things written in those pages that can’t be duplicated. Fuck, I can’t even remember some of the stuff I’ve written in there. There could be some incriminating things. It’s not just that it’s missing, it’s that somewhere someone could have found it. You understand?”
She cast her eyes down. “Yeah, your friends in high places. I got it.”
I ignored her discomfort and asked the next question that crossed my troubled mind. “Can you file a police report for a book?”
“The Bible, maybe?” she offered with no judgment in her crystal eyes.
“Might as well be a bloody bible,” I muttered. I grabbed my coat from the hanger by the door. “I’m going down to the office. Can’t hurt to check it again. See you for supper.” I closed the door behind me, not bothering to lock it.
My search was no more fruitful at work. The desk drawers were nearly empty. I found an old photo of Melinda and myself, as well as some of the early letters she’d written me. I wondered briefly why these personal items were at work, rather than home in my nightstand or somewhere equally safe. I was searching the break room hungrily when I heard the door open and close.
“You looking for something?” His voice was unmistakable. He had an irritatingly big voice, with a big accent. It matched him perfectly.
“Yes, actually. I seem to have misplaced something very important.”
His pig eyes danced. “I hope it wasn’t that pretty little lady you’ve got wrapped around your finger. It’d be a shame to lose something that special.”
It would take an absolute moron to think someone would look for a girlfriend in a break room, and this only confirmed the fact that Anderson was just that. The moron had no common sense, and even less tact. He was easily the worst person to have in ones office life.
“No, I know exactly where Melinda is. I appreciate your concern,” I said tightly before reaching for the doorknob.
“Not so fast, partner. Maybe I can help you find what you’re after.” Again those piggy eyes shone, and I had a sinking feeling inside. Anderson wasn’t in the business of helping people unless he would be taken care of in return. Anderson was the last person in the world I’d take care of.
“I don’t need your help, thanks. I’m just going to check my office again before heading out.” I swung the door open, and swung it closed behind me, leaving Anderson standing on his own in the small break room. The glow of the vending machines lighting his pudgy face.
No sooner had I returned to my office when the phone on my desk began ringing. I pressed the speaker button. “Yes?”
“Camden,” began my boss. “Could I see you a minute in my office?”
“Be there in two,” I replied, clicking the phone off. I pulled open the top drawer once more. The journal still hadn’t appeared. “Damn it,” I muttered before straightening my tie and heading to the elevator that would take me up to meet with my boss.
I nodded at his secretary as I passed. Her eyes looked worried. My emotions matched her expression as I pushed through the door and saw Anderson sitting in front of my boss’ desk. He had his hands clasped tightly in his lap, and his eyes were dancing. He smiled tightly at me, and motioned to my boss, who was reclining behind the large ornate desk.
“You needed me?” I stated.
“Have a seat, Camden.” He waited for me to situate myself uncomfortably beside Anderson. I cleared my throat expectantly. He waited a little longer.
“Anderson here has brought something very crucial to my attention,” he began heavily. “It seems that someone in this office has been keeping some information from the rest of the company. Information that may be pivotal to the success or decline of this company as a whole. Concepts, if you will.”
My boss reached into the top drawer of his desk and produced my journal. The leather cover reflected the expensive light of his desk lamp. My stomach clenched and I felt the sense of self-satisfaction practically permeating from Anderson, to my left. “Yes sir,” I stated. “That journal belongs to me, and I’d like it back if it’s all the same to you.”
“Not so fast, Camden. I’ve read through this little book of yours. Very interesting stuff in here. You ever think of taking a career in writing?”
I shot him a tight smile. “I have a fine career in personal finance, thank you.”
“Have,” my boss whispered with something resembling amusement. He was amused at my present tense use of the word to define my job. The man who had ultimate say over whether that word became ‘had’. I felt like vomiting. “Yes, Camden, you have a very nice job. Good office. Good income, good woman. There is a lot of good in your life. Yet I read a lot of bad in this little book of yours.”
“Those are just thoughts, sir. Just things that cross my mind as I move through my life. None of them have any standing in my professional life.”
His eyebrows raised, caushing his broad forehead to crease. “No standing in your professional life? Well, forgive me for being so forward, but there are a few musings in here regarding your coworker, Mr. Anderson.” He gestured to the prick in the leather armchair beside me. “Things that I think require some consideration. Let me read one little passage to you, Camden.”
I watched his square fingers flip through the pages of my most private thoughts. The skin on my arms reacted, I felt like scratching someone. My boss found the page, and licked his lips before reading aloud the things I had written.
“’It never ceases to amaze me that Anderson goes home to bed a woman like Tatiana. How she can stomach the sight of him causes my mind to swirl. I have a fantasy, if you will, of taking out a hit on Anderson’s little dick head and welcoming Tatiana into my own harem of darling women. Talk about a savvy investment. I bet he has an insurance policy through the roof. I’m sure Tatiana would share.’ Very creative of you, Camden. This could be seen as a threat, you realize.” He placed the journal facedown on his desk and looked at me expectantly.
“Just musings, sir. Nothing that would come to fruition.” I coughed into my fist and felt my world beginning to crumble at the edges.
I watched my boss’ eyes slide between me and Anderson. After an excruciating minute or two, he steepled his fingers and nodded slowly. “Alright. I feel that after this little scare, Camden, it’s safe to say I won’t see or hear any more of this nonsense from you. I don’t want to see this journal or any more documented ‘musings’ in my office. We clear?”
“Crystal,” I responded soberly. “May I have the book back, please.”
My boss flicked it across the desk with one push of his index finger. “Get out of my office, boys.”
I pocketed the book and didn’t even offer Anderson a look before turning to the door and showing myself out. I nodded curtly at the secretary and found my way to the parking lot. As soon as I was seated behind the wheel of my Audi, I flicked open my cell phone and placed an urgent call.
“Vick,” I breathed. “Call off the hit on Anderson. Just shut it all down.”

noble project

The wind whips around me, unforgiving as a slap across the face. I am reminded of our last meeting, and my cheek stings with the memory. I cast my eyes to the sea, heaving and rolling and crashing in a fit of rage and injustice against the boulders below. How easy it would be, I think, to toss myself from this desperate ledge and join the ranks of those lost in the clutches of that ferocious water. But no, I must hold on. I know that no matter how many times you leave, and how many empty threats you make, you will always come back. And in spite of myself, I know I will always wait for you.
I look out at the looming, grey expanse of clouds above and around me, and I wonder if you, where ever you are, are thinking of me. I am filled with an overwhelming sense of doubt. My worthlessness tells me that the only thoughts you give on my account are those you entertain only moments before you strike me: physically and emotionally. I bend at the knees and scoop a clump of defeated wildflowers in one hand. I bring the violet and golden blossoms to my nose and am not surprised to find they smell only of rain and dread.
“Mother!” I hear from somewhere behind me. I feel a lurch in my stomach and I know it is only the phantom voice of a child that never was. My eyes smart and sting. I open my fingers and let the clutch of flowers drift and separate on their journey down, down to the waiting water. I watch them until all I can see are the ghost shapes of seagulls crying below. I turn and walk back to the life I yearn to leave.
Not much later, when hunger has found me, I stand over a small pot of gruel bubbling and hissing on the fire. I watch the tan liquid burble and move, and my stomach tightens again. I cannot eat this food another night. I cannot fight my way through another hard biscuit and choke down the sustenance that turns to sand in my mouth. In a fit of disappointment and frustration, I take the pot from the fire and carry it to the entry of the small hut. I push open the cloth that serves as a door, but before I can empty the contents of the bowl into the dirt, I hear approaching hoof beats. I look up and see a black mare trotting down the dirt path to my home. I self-consciously brush a wisp of black hair from my eyes and try to make out the rider as he advances.
My heart jumps when I see the familiar breadth of your shoulders, the girth of your arms. But quickly I realize the figure coming my way does not have your curls or your tanned work man’s complexion. He is pale as a full moon rising over the harvest wheat. His hair is as black as a raven, as black as my own. I squint against the ambient brightness of the clouds above, and try to make out his face. It isn’t until he has come within a stone’s throw that I am able to determine I have never seen the man before in my years.
“Sir,” I call in greeting. He says nothing. As he draws nearer the humble hut, he slows his horse, and eventually stops. He dismounts and pats the horse twice on the forequarters. It remains where he left it as he strides towards me with the gait of a confident man, a gait that resembles yours not a bit.
The stranger comes close. If we wanted, we could reach out to one another and embrace. I keep my hands at my side. “I have word,” the man speaks with a heavy accent. It sounds Gaelic. I nod and ask him to join me inside, out of the biting wind. We cross the threshold and my cheeks color at the reminder of just how small my living quarters are. I motion to one of two wooden chairs in what I choose to think of as the parlor. When my guest pauses, I take a seat first. He remains standing.
“My lady,” he begins. His eyes are not sweeping the hut, not evaluating my worth based on my possessions. Instead, he is staring right at me with eyes the color of dark honey. “I bring word regarding your,” his voice hitches almost imperceptibly. When I think of it later, I am sure it will have been imagined. “Betrothed.” When I do not make any motion or plea, he continues. “He has been wounded and is in hospital. When last I saw him, he was under the knife of a very skilled surgeon. They believe he will live.”
For a moment I am not sure how I am to feel. I think of your strong, sturdy form made to lie at the hands of a surgeon and a sense of discomfort grips me. It is an unnatural way for me to think of you. I glance up at the man who is filling the entry way. My heart knocks harder at the gate of my ribs, and I ask him, “How did he come by injury? What has happened that requires a surgeon?”
The man shifts and for the first time breaks contact from his eyes to mine. He glances unknowingly at a pile of straw and fabric in the corner of the room and stares for a bit before realizing that he is peering at my sleeping quarters. His pale cheeks are graced with color and for a fleeting moment all thoughts of you are lost. I am struck by a girlish realization that the man before me is a handsome one. I yearn to spare him the embarrassment of the situation, but I know not how. “Sir,” I say in my softest voice. I aim to remind him of the questions I have uttered moments earlier.
“Yes, of course,” the man stumbles as he tries to collect his thoughts on the matter. “He, Edwin, that is, was working his trade on the edges of Fromouth Forest in Devonshire, and was caught in crossfire. He took an arrow and spear in the side before both sides realized he wasn’t involved in the conflict. The fighting has not ceased, but one kind soldier brought him to safety.”
“Sir, the name of the soldier? I should like to include him in my thoughts and offerings.” I finger the hem of my tattered dress and secretly wish the man would sweep me off my feet, and rescue me the way he has done for you. I can see his humility is battling his honesty, and for a moment I doubt he will grant me his name.
“I am the soldier responsible, my lady. I am called Camden.” He makes a small bow of his head in my direction, and returns to his full stature. I stand and step toward him. In close proximity to him, I am very aware, once again, of his manhood and my womanly nature. The heat courses through me and I bring myself to look into the eyes of this stranger.
Our eyes meet. I am washed in a sense of serenity, elevated to the heights of comfort and well-being. My heart burns hotter than ever before, and I feel secure. The fear I so often feel in such proximity to you is no more. I know with a surety that this man, this particular Sir Camden would never strike a woman. I know not what comes over me as I speak, “He hits me, Sire. Edwin is very free with the blows he issues. I almost would rather he had been mortally wounded in crossfire.”
As soon as the words escape me, I regret them. I duck my head and return to my seat, like a mutt with tail between legs. I shake my head and pull my shawl tightly around my now-shaking shoulders. I know I should not have spoken out against you. It is unbecoming for a woman to speak ill of her man. It is not my place. But I ask this, if not my place, then whose?
“Lady,” Camden begins. His footing is surer now than before. “I will see to it that man never strike you again. It is not out of place for you to tell me this. Do not feel remorse for your honesty. Do not cower for fear of your man.” He has quietly crossed the room and is now kneeling at my side. He looks up into my face with his shining hazel eyes. “My lady,” he whispers as he takes my dirty hand in his own broad one. “Do not fear.” I watch as he places a single kiss on the palm of my hand, and before I am able to collect my breath, he stands and is gone from the house.
I stand as well and try to collect my thoughts. I move to the doorway and pull the fluttering fabric to the side. Sir Camden is already a great distance from the hut, and there is a fire in my belly that tells me I shall see him again.

Night has fallen over the hut by the sea, and I am watching the flames flicker and dance, reminiscing on my life. It seems half-lived in so many ways, but not so different from the lives of many women with whom I am acquainted. I wonder why it is that women never go to battle, why women have no trade other than cooking, cleaning, and childbearing. My mind wanders back to my childhood, and just like a ghost from the past, my sister knocks quietly on the door post.
“Arie,” she whispers into the folds of the tattered curtain. “Arwen, it is me. Pray tell, is Edwin at home?” She knows he has gone to share his trade, and will not return for some time. She is only playing.
I stand and gather my night clothes around my shoulders. The chill hasn’t set in yet, but I will be prepared for it when it does. I walk quickly to the doorway and whip the curtain open to greet my sister. Her face lights up like springtime when she sees me well and unscathed. Her arms wrap tightly around my midsection. For a fleeting moment I am reminded of a night much like this, when my sister came to visit and brought herbs and spices to apply to my swollen stomach. I am reminded of the hollowness that is there now. My sister pulls away and searches my face. When she is satisfied with whatever she finds in my own expression, she pushes past me and into the sitting room.
“Arie, I am so elated Edwin is not here to mar another evening! Oh bless, were you sleeping?” she cries as she spots my rumpled bed and my attire.
I pat my hair self-consciously and shake my head. “No, no. I was only thinking and preparing for sleep.”
“What were you thinking about?” my sister asks, pulling a chair closer to the hearth and filling it with her narrow bottom.
For a moment I debate whether to tell her about your injury, and the guest I entertained so briefly earlier in the day. But as a woman I find it so impossible to suppress such tantalizing gossip! I offer my sister a cup of tea and I set in, telling her of the stranger, and everything of your visit to the surgeon. My sister is such a wonderful audience. She listens with such rapt attention and she cares not a mite for your well-being, but wants to know everything of Sir Camden.
“Laurel,” I breathe, calling her by name. “He is a most spectacular human. Strong and sharp, with a voice like thunder in the distance. I should shiver to think what Edwin would do to me if he knew. But I shall not worry about him any longer! Camden assured me that I would never fall at the hand of that tyrant again.”
My sister’s bright brown eyes are shining. She sips from the nearly-clean cup I have given her. The tea is bitter, as I have not one grain of sugar in the house. She does not complain. “When will you see him again?” she asks with the eagerness of a child.
I shake my head. “I know not. I suppose if he returns it will be with news of Edwin. Or likely he will send another page or squire. I am certain he is far too busy to be troubled with the domestic matters of my courtship with a monster like Edwin.” I almost cower, preparing for a blow for uttering such ill words.
“There was talk of you today in the village,” Laurel says quietly. I am led to imagine all manner of negative things the townspeople have to say about me. So many among them think ill of me for living with you, for carrying your child. They think I am cursed. They think I deserve all the toil that befalls me.
“What have they said now?” I ask wearily, certain it will sting.
“Fear not, Arwin. The people have nothing bad to say of thee. They only share my elation at the absence of that tyrant you live with. There was speculation of you being with child again, and what you should do if you are indeed carrying.”
Before she’s even finished speaking, I shake my head. I cannot be with child. I shudder to think of the possibility. All the reminiscence and phantom voices might be explained if there were another spirit within me, but I know in my heart I am hollow. “No, I am not with child. Just fat off all the gruel and tack I no longer have to share with my man.”
Laurel places an open hand on my knee. “Sister, you will tell me if you are with child. I will not let him strip you of that joy a second time. No one will.”
My eyes begin to sting again as the memory of my lost child comes back with full force. As you know, Laurel was the one I ran to when the blood came. Laurel helped me bury the child you wanted nothing to do with. Just as I cannot go through a loss like that again, I know Laurel would also be hard-pressed to survive it a second time.
“I would tell you, Laurel. I would protect myself far better a second time. Fear not.”
Having exhausted all our words and our emotions, my sister stands to leave. She kisses me on the cheek and tells me how strong I am. I want to believe her, but you have instilled within me such an immense sense of self-doubt, I wonder if I shall ever feel strong again. I watch her leave, her silhouette blending into the night until she has returned to the faint, flickering lights of the town.
As I return to my bed and prepare to sleep, it is no surprise that your image does not fill my mind this night. I think only of Sir Camden sweeping me into his arms and carrying me far, far away from this cliff, and the life I live dangling on the edge.