Meet Max (Chapter One)

[ I am going to share the first two chapters of the book I am still editing. Please feel free to give me input, any suggestions, or ideas that may come to mind. I am doing this in part to force myself to make this real for me. I keep putting this aside for several reasons, but I truly want to complete it ... posting it will help me get it out of "hiding." I will most likely remove the posts after I get back to the book itself. If I sound silly, well may I am! ha ha I'll publish Chapter Two tomorrow.]  

Chapter One

I remember that it was my first day on the job, I was feeling a little nervous, but I knew that I was very good at everything I did so I didn’t worry too much. I had already scoped out the company months before I started.

I spent time dissecting them, and researching what they were about. I knew that I could do the job–I had no problem with that. I was more concerned about the people. Actually, I wasn’t really that worried with them either, I am just trying to be more human.

I don’t care either way about people I work with. I have my limited friends, sometimes I make some good ones at work, but mostly I use them for convenience; when I want people around. I like my solitude–I don’t like to be lonely.

On my first day, I had gone to the break room for lunch. I was going to sit and have some quiet time. As I walked in I thought I was alone although, I did feel something. I decided to investigate the items that were hanging out in the refrigerator anyway.

“You shouldn’t do that.” A voice blared its eyes on the back of my neck. I looked around for the soft, but direct voice. Scanning the room, in a small corner, I saw a covering of brunette hair, with dark eyes. The eyes were so dark that the white surrounding them were like fluorescent bulbs. The obscure figure was cowering into a book that read “Starbucks Preacher.”

She sat being gulped up by a dark gray and deep purple heavy sweater. I could not tell if she was mousy or eccentric. She seemed too confident for mousy, and as I looked in more detail at her sweater I noticed how the threads swirled into odd patterns that normally does not adorn a sweater. I thought she had to be eccentric.

The patterns swam into hexagons, but not really. They were fused with their own breath rotating symmetries that were dancing in my eyes. The sixes covered my visual and then, disappeared. They were coddled in thickness that was very odd, being it was almost 80 degrees outside. Still she looked to be shivering.

As I poured over the sleeves of her sweater I noticed tiny threads hanging and dangling as she held the book in her hand as if it were a pot of gold. She peered over her book only revealing her black eyes. Her iris’s blended with her pupils making it look as if they were one solid vortex of black that was both warm and cold at the same time.

She stared at me with a piercing curiosity. In those few moments, I noticed how she looked like a cat studying me, tilting, and slowly moving her head in wonderment. Was I prey or a playmate? I wondered. I chuckled slightly as she hid her head behind her book then, slowly crept one eye around the corner with a peaking shapely eyebrow. I thought, “She is a ninja cat!”

She had one eye burning on me. I couldn’t help but feel uneasy and yearning at the same time. Who was this odd person and what was she doing? My thoughts became perplexed and uneasy. “I shouldn’t do what?” I asked with tiny annoyance in my voice.

Now she was hiding completely behind her book, with a vanished eye she said, “You shouldn’t snoop through refrigerators.” She closed her book roughly, picked up her belongings abruptly and said, “11 squared. 121 crashed into 4, I like 2, but it always ends with 1.”

As she passed by her long hair spewed out a fragrant smell that I had never experienced before. The back of her walked into a midst of yellow. I noticed that her long strands had sparkles throughout. She was a brunette, but I had never seen so many different colors mixed together making a new kind of brunette-ish hue.

Instantly, I loved all of her oddities. I swear for a moment I saw her glow. As I stood in the break room of my new work place I felt rather exposed after being in her presence. I thought, “What was I to do now after I experienced that?”

She bewildered me with her words and I was then hit with the thought of, “What on earth did she mean with the 11 squared crap?” My thoughts poured, “How did she know I was snooping around in the refrigerator? Was it obvious that I was a lunch thief?” I didn’t want to steal anyone’s lunch–alright I admit I was looking for the unwanted foods. Or possibly a soda that no one would notice. Was it written on the back of my shirt I forgot my lunch?

A flux of questions came over me. It was such a strange encounter that I still have it ingrained into every fiber of my brain. I got angry at the thought that she would assume that I was going to take something, but I was mainly upset with myself. She was right I was snooping, and I got caught. I decided then that I was staying away from that girl. She was dangerous. I didn’t want any part of her. I burned that in my brain, tattooing it to remind me to stay clear.

The rest of the day however, I couldn’t stop thinking of her. I wondered what she was about. I remember thinking, “My god! I am consumed.” I told myself to shake it off. I considered her some strange girl who happened to guess what I was doing. I did decide to leave that day to get something to eat, I had an hour for lunch.

My first day was not too bad; I seemed to like the people. I do hang out with some of them on occasion. I had met a few of them at a local bar; geeks seem to gravitate toward each other. Although, I admit I am a pretty cool geek. I do manage to get the ladies – I feel confident in my flirting abilities. However, when I think about it I usually spend my efforts on woman who I really do not care about. I do have a habit of playing with women who I know are safe. Playful emotional banter is fine, we both get what we need without any real attachment – at least on my part. I find most women lackluster even if they are physically attractive. Sometimes I get lucky with the beautiful intelligent girl, but mostly I find them devoid.

Nothing against any of them, I can’t seem to keep my heart stuck on one. I love women; I want to be surrounded by women. I want to swim in women…not really I am trying to be manly here. I am a ladies’ man, but I can’t care for the ladies.

I tried love once. I have had plenty of women, but they never last long. Sometimes I feel dirty even being around them. It is not because there is anything wrong with them per say, but their minds, their interests, their looks, their smell, their feel, their color, their number; I don’t know they never fit. They never add up to the correct sum.

There are times when I walk the streets, the number flashes at me from a license plate, or an address and I think, “What the hell did she mean by 11 squared. 121 crashed into 4, I like 2, but it always ends with 1.”

Damn it! That sentence still makes me naked. She saw me and spoke it and I continue to convince myself I do not know what it means.

She was the first day of my unwelcomed awakening. The job was alright, it wasn’t what I wanted, but it helped me get to where I wanted to go. I couldn’t stop thinking about her words for days after that encounter. I could not stop smelling her or seeing the waves of color that flowed from her. I can smell her now and see the colors clearly. I will eventually press it all down as I did before. I do enjoy remembering some days – it makes me smile.

She made me see things differently; I swear she was like a walking rainbow. I find it all so disturbing because she made me think things like that. From the moment I met her, I felt like I walked into a movie. It was being made without our knowledge, some strange iconic flick. I remember telling myself that I didn’t want anything to do with her, ever.

She made me think of music – she still does.

Queen! {pawn}

Black-and-white squares have shown through my pupils, pretending that I was wearing a crown. The lights have bounced their reflection meticulously around my head – halo hovering slightly above, just enough to give such impressions.

Impressions, that I may be allowed to move, as if I were Queen. Such a haphazard to dispel a truth; why of course, I AM Queen. (Of hollow)

I walk back and forth freely, diagonally if I may wish – without any disruption, unless! I walk slightly out of my square. Am I with or without color today? It will depend upon the King’s mood, for it changes with a whoosh; the slightest of inconvenience.

Hush! We dare not speak, nor tell of such things; the rooks like to use me. They push me this way and that to save themselves, the King revels in their flattery. As much as when I pour out my laudations. I give my praise – still it is never enough, the King adores and abhors both left and right, carving out jagged little aggressors coated in smiles; my way.

“Oh, aren’t you the fabulous Queen, too bad you have such a time with your moves; but I know you will be perfectly fine … well once, you get everything fixed. Your color seems a bit gray today. No, you look quite fine, I do not pay much mind to looks anyway. You need not worry. Are you sure you moved to the left? Yes, yes, indeed you did, you did. Um … why I am only helping to remind you love, your memory does fail you sometimes. Rather, I mean you have an excellent memory it was only that one time, and the other when you slipped diagonally and you meant to go left. Remember? Or maybe it was right, you went right and you were supposed to move forward? No worries, I am sure you will do fine today.” 

The King has spoken, his charge is full – flashing his words into my skull. An embellished head it is, floating above recourse. The gray jabs at my eyes, what color am I today? Have I already forgotten? King, please tell my what color am I today? 

“Why I only told you moments ago, do you not recall?  I will adorn in black.” 

But King, didn’t you say something of gray? Wasn’t I white today?

“Dear, Queen, your memory fails -such a shame; you used to be so quick footed and witty. It must be your age. And you do look fine for your age.” 

Colossal, what is the next move, I cannot recall my wits about me at all. I dare not ask my next move -stand still, Ms. Hollow… Ms. Hollow, it echoes of something; not right. I was, but a fair maiden dancing in the light of life. Now a gray Ms. Hollow whispers as my only name. I do not know that name at all, foreign – forged. A counterfeit, shaped and hammered into such a statuesque Queen.

The very mirror of such eyes that pretends to see gray; all the while basking in black-and-white, hiding in the shadows. Call me your pretty, your lovely as long as Ms. Hollow does not step out-of-bounds. Tear me into pieces, grinning through your teeth, draining the blood from my veins – I’ve been replaced with soot and ash.

Why has my mold chipped, flaked; revealing some far off remembrance of color? Must my eyes become unveiled? My King, takes pleasure in my pain – becomes rejuvenated by contorting my brain? Delights in my death; I see very clearly … he would rather watch me decay into shriveled pieces to stroke his own ideals, believe in his fantasies, keep me locked down in invisible chains because it makes him feel good-revived-ALIVE!

I am no Queen – I am nothing more than a meaningless pawn. At least, I finally know where I stand.

Do I look gray today? Why no, I am rather white and sparkly with a speckle of yellowish hue, call me Ms. Hollow … For I shall play for my King’s amusement.

Who shall be checked, mate?

Validation

Validation

I’ve grown tired -
wearisome,
Daddy; exhaustion set in,
there is no pleasure,
you find in me -
a memory; shadow
what was your quest;
in saving me?

you’ve become tiresome,
Daddy; a figure -
outlined mask of relational faux pas,
broken down a child’s heart,
one rejection after another -
is it better to have you; Daddy?
an ether of existence,
or an entity of fantasy?

pray tell, my father figure,
are you proud?
you have succeeded;
abandonment my affinity,
a reflection of all kinship -
tell me Grand Daddy,
was it your purpose -
destruction of a child’s heart?
~
we sigh; into the folds
wrinkles of daddies, granddaddies,
of mothers too,
flowing their burdens upon us,
inadequacies;
selfishly slap into a little one’s eyes
Society, rejects us,
our Daddy’s; Authorities -
trampled what could have been;
but they are not allowed to determine
who-we-are, or where-we-will-go.

(Daddy is a metaphor for authority in general. This poem taps on the faulty beliefs that can manifest in our minds from authority figures and “society’s” fears, but we can see hope because we can help stop the cycles.)

My Dragon (Truth With a Bit of Fiction)

My stories burst from emotions or triggers that I have from my past and present – many times they are movies that play in my head of events; some may be true some may be from my imagination.

Every now and then, I will share a story on here that is for the most part completely true. Usually, the aspects of fiction are very clear such as talking creatures and what have you. Like this one Butterfly Tale A True Story…Mostly.

Lately, I have been struck with visuals and memories from my friend that I only “saw” for a short period of time. I have written about him on several occasions, but I do not recall if I have on here, I do not think I have. I am setting you up for my story …

When I was six weeks old; my mom, and I packed up onto a plane – our destination was Germany. We went to meet my father who was stationed there, he was a medic in the army. (That is another series of stories.) We lived there a little over three years.

I do not recall much, only flashes of memories. I remember that I felt as though I could run free. It just felt very open to me.

My mom had mentioned often throughout my life, about my imaginary dragon who lived with us. He was a huge dragon that “appeared” one day, she cannot recollect when.

He was my best friend. We did everything together. He was too big to stay in my room so at night, I would make my mom open both doors to the balcony so he could sleep outside. She said, that every morning the doors had to be opened to let him back in. It did not matter if it freezing outside or not, Dragon had to come in so he could talk and play with me. The room would rush with cold air and my mom’s frustration, but she knew that if she did not let him in there would be repercussions from a toddlers fury.

He went with us everywhere – I would make my mom open doors to shops and other places that we visited. He was with me all the time, I talked to him non-stop. My mom did not mind because Dragon gave her a break from having to entertain me.

He was with me until we had to come back to the U.S. I am not sure why, but Dragon could not come with me. My mom said that she remembered something about me saying he could not fit on the plane. When I think of this I am flushed with sadness. I recall some sense of loss, and I believe that was the first time I experienced heartbreak.

It was only the beginning, after moving back to the states, within the next year my parents were divorced. Shortly after that, my dad already had a new girlfriend who he married by the time I was five.

During, those few years, several extremely painful and damaging things happened to me that no little girl (child or adult) should ever have to experience. I wish that it was the end, but it was not.  Though, I do not care to discuss any of that.

All of this is wrapped together, because I have been reminded of my dragon again. I have had moments of remembrance. I recall skipping down the street, my mom is behind me, and next to me is a huge form, ashen in color, but clearly a magnificent dragon. I feel comfort, safety, and excited because we are discussing all sorts of fabulous things that were rambling about in my little mind. My dragon is happy, but he also felt very protective.

Even now, as I feel the memories I know that he made himself ashen in color so others would not see him. I cannot remember him revealing his beauty to me, but somehow I knew – I know. There is a familiar voice, and I am cradled in power. Not like human power, nothing that I would experience for myself – it is power of something unknowable to humans.

I do not know why my tiny brain chose a dragon. I do not know why I have been drawn to dragons my entire life, but I am. I find them fascinating and their history intrigues me. I never knew his name, but I felt as though he was placed there to protect me. I do not know why I feel that I just do. I am sure I could meddle into the psychology of it all, but I do not want to.

There are times when I prefer to keep my mystical mind happily twitsted up in these unanswerables. I enjoy rapturing my imaginations and some form of sixth sense into the mysteries of quizzical pleasures.

For some reason, I had to leave Dragon behind. For some reason, I had to experience heartbreak at such a young age. For some reason, I had to experience great loss – continually searching for another who was as faithful, protective, and entertaining as my Dragon. Ever searching…

I have thought of my Dragon always. There was a season in my life when I felt as though it were wrong to believe in dragons, or even wrong to experience that type of feeling again.

Several years ago, I stifled all of my imagination. I stopped writing poetry, I stopped writing stories, I tried to destroy my inspirations. I found that you cannot rid yourself of such things.

They will manifest somehow, they will explode into your real world through other means. They will tear open a heart that you so drastically try to keep sewn shut. They will embalm you with fantasies. They will burst through the dimensions from other worlds and cover you with insane black matter, or they will explode new galaxies right before your eyes.

Worse yet, they will thrust people into your path that awaken your bits and parts that you were unaware existed. They bring to life dead dry bones, breathing liquid light into dark places. I say worse, because this is a most beautiful and excruciating process – one that you have to decide, do I choose to lock all of this into a box, waiting for the explosion, or do I run full force ripping off all clothing, flesh, tearing out your veins to tie them around the sun?

Shall we leap on the winds that dragon’s wings create, or settle quietly with our plastic eyes?

Almost two years ago, I felt the same feeling I felt when I was child, walking with Dragon. It was as though, he came back because he knew that I was slowly settling into earthly death. I had given up. I gave up all of me to satisfy another. Another that assumed I was someone else, and the most damaging culprit – Me.

I had a few recurring dreams about a dragon throughout my life. I used to collect dragons, but allowed myself to be swept into other’s identities. I got rid of them all. I did that with many of my collections.

I have been sitting on several stories about dragons. I have these visions of a little girl and a dragon. I do hope to write the stories one day. I do not feel that it is time.

However, I will share a little glimpse of The Adventures of Malchuia and Aurora. I wrote this April 20, 2012 it is short because I stopped myself from writing any further. I am not sure why, other than I suppose it was not the time. I do have the whole story traveling through my neurons.

The Adventures of Malchuia and Aurora

clink, clink, clink

There was a sound of echoing songs as he walked. His scales so tightly fitted; as a metal armor across his chest. The colors of amber, emerald, and teal spilling into each other on his solid under belly. His rough exterior seemed black, but when you looked closely at his hide it was a deep dark blue, a blue that glistened in light. His body was enormous, his tail could cover an entire mountain range – it seemed. He wasn’t really that massive, but his presence and beauty made him seem that way.

Malchuia: (mal-koo-ea) meaning gentle strength, wisdom, subtle power.

He was a gentle giant full of honest character and he loved that little girl. He would do all he could to accomplish his task of protecting her. But he was not supposed to love her, he knew it would interfere with his duties. 

The Mirror

I see you everyday – your eyes look straight through me. When I move my head you come along with me. You smile while saying such mean things.

I see your blemishes, magnify. Your eyes need to be fixed and your hair is a mess!

Who are you anyway?

Why are you so disgusted by me? Looking straight into my eyes.

I am frightened of what you have to say.

Must you tear me down with vicious looks – cold stares? Am I that hideous?

The scars, and discolored flesh, they are but a weakness to you. It would not matter how perfect I was; you would still, STILL, find a flaw. You offer no compassion to my eyes, scarcely an empathetic glance. No, all you ever glare are imperfections.

A swallowed up vessel, tainted in the schemes that gobbled up any self-esteem. I look at you for clarity and all I get is skewed visions, verbal attacks.

You have chewed me up so many times I have no idea what is truth. Are you a fun house mirror that follows me wherever I go?

I try not to look at you too long, for if I do my body contorts, bends, morphs, while flailing into mind conspiracies.

That is why he left. People stare at your ugliness. You will never be good enough. You are repulsive! You, You, You! An existence that causes the world to feel sick at your sight! 

My, GOD! Must you be so cruel? Must you too, rip me apart – you were my last hope of clarification. Instead, you break me down, and cluster all of the voices together into some dynamic hateful song. And you sing it around me, dancing gleefully, your pleasure is to destroy me?

Aww, but I have had enough of You. Your gleams and splinters distorting my eyes. You are afraid. You are terrified that I will tell you to leave. Why is this, I ask. You and I both know why.

You will disappear into the translucence of some faint world never to enter again. I confess, I am frightened of leaving you. You are all I know, the only voice of comfort. I have only known your truth. Your’s is the only voice that calls me home in comfortable pain. In numbness that dulls the aches, so other’s cannot harm me.

You have prepared me for invisible battles, and made up scenarios. You are the only one who has been faithful – shall we say what is going on here? Stockholm Syndrome? I am adhered to your dysmorphic prose. Your destructive love and abusive desires.

But, I am tired. I am worn out by your pathetic games. You have clamored me for the last time. YOU-ARE-A-LIAR!

My eyes, so help me, my eyes may never take another look at you again if it means my freedom. You no longer lay claim on me. And as I look at my skin, I can see the color rush fast, and warmth fill my veins. I feel my lips and they are alive. My body desires to be loved and adored.

You! Need to shut up! I know you will fade, I will embrace all that you tried to annihilate and pulverize. There is still life in these bones – my eyes will one day see beyond the cloudiness that you coated them in. I will look at you, one day, and smile.

New Identity

It arrived today. She sent a check.

It stated clearly that it was a gift, but her gifts always have chains with locks and no key. If you accept the gift, you can be sure that the hook will follow – it could be decades later, but the hook will come flying across the hemisphere latching into your heart AND no doubt tear open your soul.

The note simply said,

“Money for a passport, meet me in Chili. I want you to meet my new husband.”

I wondered who belonged to the name typed onto the check. Husband number 12. I think, I lost count.

I had not heard from her in three years. The last time I heard from her, I received this note with a card,

“I am getting a divorce. He was not who he claimed to be. Hope you are well. Love, Mom”

I think she made copies and kept a file folder of those notes. I believe she only had two. That one and this one, “I got married, he is wonderful. He is the one sent from heaven above. All of our worries will be over. Love Mom.”

Though that one has since been condensed to the soundbite version I received today. Funny enough, I was never part of the wonderful plans. She always said, we, but what she meant was her.

Her actions stopped hurting me years ago, what hurt was being right about her. I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. I wanted to believe she was the person she believed she was. I hoped she was the person that others believed her to be.

I knew she wasn’t. I could not see past the abandonment. The lies. The blatant love affair that she had with herself. Her lust for money and to feel wanted trumped any desires to take care of me. She did everything for me, she said.

I hold this check with yet, another name that I do not know. A man who once again, has no idea what he has tied himself to. This man who is blinded by wants himself – who is to blame?

People like her give off clear red flags, they rip your guts with “Caution!” Yet, somehow they are so masterful at their craft that the warning signs fade. Eyes become sparkly, hearts become fat and turgid, and souls get sucked into the vortex of illusion. Illusions that they choose to believe for whatever reasons.

I saw straight through her when I was eight – I chose not to see it until I was 25. I wrestled with my innards for years. My mind wanted to be deceived. I wanted to believe that she loved me. I wanted to believe that she did everything for me. I wanted to be loved. I fell for her muse.

I walked into the tentacles of love time and time again. She was my mother, she was all I had – she made it that way.

My walls had to be formed, plastered around my core. She knew how to get me. She played me and twisted me. She loved me, leaving me to my own self-destruction.

Today, I no longer play. The check is ripped into bits. I am walking away – never to be heard from again.

Of new flesh, heart, and life.

Of Mental Affairs

We all know her, that girl who is trapped into dreams of wishing wells, and tiny rabbit holes. Falling down yellow brick roads, knees covered in band-aides, from each fall. She lives a life full of red balloons, hanging musical notes from each knot.

Yet, we never question her existence at all. She lives, but where? Does that phantom truly exist or is it a quest of our imagination?

Her long flowy hair, prismatic eyes piercing our flesh, exposing fears – causing us all to run for the hills! She spits out all that we cannot, her polychromatic language cryptic and cutting in everyway melts the core of our existence.

Though, I ask does she exist at all? She represents love that is untouchable, pure, radiantly stirring the flesh, quaking thunderous thoughts of the mind, setting the spirit into ablaze.

If such a creature lives, we must ask; where? In the mind of me, your Narrator, or have You created me? These fairy tales splashing against our electrons of some sort of entity, but what are we indeed? And we all should ask another very important question – Am I a trustworthy, Narrator? 

I obviously, cannot answer that for You. As I pour the story of her, straight into your mind; let the prose of mental affairs set into place some questioning to “hang out to dry”… her words coming to life or do they belong to You?

~~~~~

I am set, between your eyes,
You keep me hidden; precious secret,
cloaked in the caverns of your neurons,
I am, a rapine of your thoughts,
You force my eyes;
to look upon all of your deeds.

I saw you kiss her.

Your tender lips -
tongue intercourse,
while demanding me to watch!
Ripping out my heart, once again,
You care for me little?
Dare I say, you care for her less -
keeping those pied eyes shut.
I know your visuals,
who You are caressing with each twist of spittle.

I saw you stroke her hair.

I felt your fingers, sway against her skin -
your cruelty rages within my being,
AND I exist for You.
Touch me one time,
from long ago,
let my warm tears soak into your cells,
lap me up, coil yourself into me again -
must I beg,
You assault my pain into pleading?

I saw you hug her frame.

Breath escapes me,
fragile, cold-
your eyes drenched into hers,
as I am trenched into your skull,
quietly, I whimper -
folded close to death,
but You will not let me go.

I saw You hold her, with her head cradled in your neck.

Must You torture me?
You keep me stuck in this world -
with You,
pretending I am Your Lover,
something of value.
Do I even exist?
A figment of imagination,
mine or yours -
I do not know!
What madness to create such lovelies,
for mere existence of suffering?

I saw You keep my picture, safely hidden away.

I watched You, sigh deeply,
as You rolled over sharing the bed -
with her, loving me,
touching her, pretending.
I watched!
Knowing with all of my Being,
that I could never be so unfaithful -
even in my utter lack of existence.

Friends

Now every year, in every town that received the news of snow, the trees would wait, the birds would chirp, and the moon was desperate to know.

The call of the winds, the fluff of evergreens all glistened in tune, awaiting the moment for the flakes to fall, and for those friends to return.

Winter rush, gray sky haze, and hovering clouds would shake, filled with glee to see them again, but it was up to Storm’s sake.

Today was the day; a blizzard would come, manifesting the next form of their life quake.

Squirrels all a chatter, sparrows in uproar, leaves irritable at best, because they all knew the air smelled of them, they felt it was taking too long for this quest.

As Christmas trees stared out windows, and wreaths jiggled through breeze, they waited in delight, ’till they could finally see.

Stories were told, tales manifested, myths became the norm, all creation sat in awe as the flurries danced down from the scene of folklore.

At last, the ground was covered; snowflakes whisked in hush, the moonlight glazed a white blanket that coated the mountaintop.

Quivering in the glimmers, stars twinkled hues, the show was about to begin, it would only last a few days then, quickly over again.

Slowly, moist particles, gathered in shape, two friends standing complete in their perfect mold.

It had been decades – their cold bodies stood stiffly, they smiled with silent prattle, giggles filled their eyes, but one looked rather sadly while, the other gleamed oblivious.

Foxes were watching, cuddled in warmth, deer peered behind trees, looking at each other with pause and the flickers of light that bounced off the snow stopped dancing with joy.

The earth was on halt, the two friends went from smile to frown, speaking through watery mist, crisp cold sighs, and iced glazed eyes, soon to turn into puddles.

They did not notice the commotion around them, the trees were bending, animals were closing in, the moon, and stars sank down hovering ever so slightly above them – trying listen.

Bleakness filled the flutters, the air was thick and sharp, an owl flew quietly by getting whiff of melt, the two friends tried to touch, but their fingers fanned into dust.

Owl, glided back to his hiding place, heaviness filled his heart – he had heard a fragment of words that never escaped the friend’s mouths. Blinking in the still silence, he knew too much to hold, yet, he could do nothing, but watch the pain unfold.

Whirlwinds blasted the scenery, when finally the answers came then, one of them said, “What does friend mean to you? For surely, I am nothing, but a presence of afflation. You do not spin words, when you know how much they mean, you leave me in drifting vapors, fluid of motion seen, however, completely unseen. I melted my existence into each ice crystal fall, individual hexagons morphed and made anew; falling gently into breath hoping you would speak too. Alas, I never hear you, dismay fills my eyes, I no longer feel as a friend – for me you have no desire.”

Universal angst raged in a blasting blizzard, binary stars cried out, the dried up leaves hidden under the fluffy white cover, became even more embittered.

All things sank in sorrow as one friend watched the other fuse into flakes of never.

A puddle of sadness – happy to share in presence and hoped that it would never go away, but understood that night, that friends would not watch you fade – smelting in such a way.

They Said…

He said, I feel like you are talking to me through your written words.

She said, I know you hear me, I live within your mind.

He said, I will never tell you what you want to hear.

She said, I know.

He said, BUT I can never let you go.

She said, Ditto.

He said, I’ll quietly visit you all the time.

She said, please do; and touch me every time.

He said, I live inside the belly of your soul.

She said, I am aware and feel you even now. And you know, I live inside your cells.

He smiled, looked away far into the sky.

She smiled, and looked deep; into the moon.

He said, I won’t leave, I’ll stay close by.

She said, I pray so.

He said, I’d kiss you, but I’m too far away.

She said, I’ll kiss your shadow anyway.

No one said, distance and time have no power here. 

He said, sometimes I think I feel you in my sleep.

She said, you were not sleeping.

He said, that’s too strange even to think.

She said, yep.

He laughed.

She laughed.

He said, we can only live in the ethereal realms.

She said, I don’t care – I’ll take what I can get.

He said, I miss you, but I will not tell you so.

She said, I’d write you, but it hurts too much so now; I’ll just invade your brain.

He said, this is not real.

She said, I know.

They said, good night (lying in their beds, one arm raised toward the sky, whispering) I love you.

No one said, I heard that.

They said,  I love you too, I’ll meet you in the sky.

The Collector

The rattling of the jar shook him to the core; he caught the glimpse – the crash before the glass fragmented all over his floor. Racing to catch it, he stumbled over the perfectly straight tassels on his oriental rug, falling onto his belly knocking the wind right out of his lungs.

His eyes glazed with watery substance as he watched the bottle hit in a piercing splat, shattering into tiny pieces – he knew he would be finding the morsels for years. Those little slivers of glass enjoyed hiding in corners, lurking the slits of  floors, burying themselves into the fibers of  rugs – you only see them if the light reflects just so or you step on them with bare feet. The bottle had dug and hid itself in parts all over his favorite area of the house.

Trying to catch his breath, he slowly stood to his feet. He looked around with a disgruntled sigh; he brushed off his clothes and primped himself. The silence of the house felt as a thousand voices pricking into his ears. The glass lay in oddly shaped pieces, strewn all over the place. He went to get his vacuum, broom, and dustpan. Along with a polishing cloth for the floor.

The sadness in him felt strange, looking at the scattered particles he realized that this one meant a great deal more than he had thought. The glimmer of the teardrop shaped opal beckoned him. He picked it up quickly and stuffed it in his pant pocket. He gathered all of the pieces he could find, vacuumed what he could see, and tossed the broken cavity into the trash.

After he had finished cleaning, he grabbed a Guinness, poured it into a glass, and sat down in front of the fireplace. Purposely set in front of the fireplace the black suede over-sized chair not only sat in the direction to look at the flames, but also made it possible for him to stare at his collection.

Above the fireplace were four mahogany shelves, five clear glass bottles on each. The plain looking vessels adorned one single gem attached to a chain. They were set exactly five inches apart from each other and strategically placed according to the year of collection. The top row started from age nine swaying all the way to the last row ending at his current age.

His eyes glared at the bottles and the flames danced in hues of fuzzy visions. Thoughts rampaged him while he considered what it was going to take to collect another one. Annoyed at the thought, his visuals drifted to the first bottle. It dangled a turquoise gem around its neck. Taking a sip of his stout, he closed his eyes and fell into his childhood.

Often, he would walk around the pond and gather creatures or study any living things. He liked to watch the ripples in the water and count the cattails. Remembering the first time, he saw her. They were both nine years-old and discovered each other while he was catching baby frogs. She was skipping rocks and they hit it off right away becoming the best of friends that summer.

She had long brown braided pigtails; she always wore a summer dress and went barefoot. Under her dress, she would wear her swimsuit so she could jump into the water anytime she wanted. She had no fear and would try to catch snapping turtles just to see how badly it would hurt if they snapped her.

He adored her – the light that sprang from her body and the excitement that poured from her breath. He wanted to keep her always. They were together for two years - inseparable.

Then, one day he decided that was it. He was not going to let her go and the only way he knew was to take her heart and keep it. He ended everything. He stopped talking to her. He stopped going to the pond. He refused to speak to her except on the last day.

The last day he ever spoke a word to her he took the spirit of her heart, all of her love, and locked it away into his bottle. His words said nothing and everything at the same time. She cried, screamed, and broke right before his eyes. He just watched as the vapors of her love collected into the bottle. When it sank to the bottom of the glass jar, he quickly shoved a cork into the opening, and ran away.

He held the bottle close to his heart and vowed from that day forward he would keep the spirits of those who loved him locked away so they could never love another.

They would be trapped to adore him while he stayed unreachable. Keeping them at a distance in plain glass jars adorned with beautiful gems to remind him of their loveliness.

He sat thinking of them one by one. Each lovely creature that he had left lifeless and unable to love. He saw nothing wrong with it. He longed to love back, but it was safer to keep them in the bottles hidden up top on shelves – dusting them off every once and while.

The  memories started to stab into his chest. The emotions he had tucked away so many years before felt as an earthquake shaking and pounding into his body. Fingers slipping, the door burst open, and the wind barreled through knocking his glass right out of his hand.  Startled and quivering he looked around for the intruder -the fire blazed higher and the shelves shook.

Gasping for air, gripping at his chest his mouth fell open in silent screams. His existence trembled with no meaning, his heart ripped and teared. His hands grabbed and groped at his chest, pain struck through his arms, everything became muffled, his head was dizzy, and sounds of shattering glass fell all around him as he collapsed to the floor.

Time was swallowed, coughing himself awake the hazy scene around his body made no sense. His body ached all over and he felt fragments on his back. He tried to get up pressing his hands into shards of glass.

He collapsed again, his face pressed against all the gathered hearts and broken spirits he had collected. Exhausted and frightened he rolled over onto his back staring at the empty shelves, then his bloody hands.

Tears raged out of his sockets, his guts wailed, his heart devoured heartbreak, and he watched his superlative home fill with a presence. Throughout the earth was a resounding joy that broke into those women who had lost their hearts to a man who collected them, but did not love them.

And they were all set free that night – those tied up spirits, bound to loveless vessels. His heart reaped in circling pain – alone. He could no longer hide his scars and all of his collections were shattered.