|
|
Prose PoetryRecipe2 packages yeast Sitting, Waiting, Resting Sitting, quiet, still, tarot cards spread out along the bed. Resting ankle collapses on a nearby chair, black ice compressor, black nails contrasting green tank and yellow torn off cotton pants. Before they were black, silver dog collar. Hear me. Realistic StoriesReaccountingPart 1: Reaccounting Top CoveredI am stuck here, listening to Ellie and Andrea drag on as long as their packs of cigarettes will last, about their boyfriends, their stalker, their obsessed. It’s cold outside, but neither of them seems to care with their problems wrapping around them like coats and the embers of their cigarettes lighting the porch. That is it, I am going to open the door and walk away. I’ll make them tea as an excuse. There still isn’t a table in the kitchen, though the walls of the living room have been plastered with posters. Bottles stacked upon mugs, growing out of plates rise out of the sink. They feel almost slimy to me as I push a few aside in order to get water into the teakettle. Next door, the upstairs floor is a having a party. Lights from their windows stream in along with smiles and laughter. A brown girl tosses her hair over her shoulder to get it out of the way; it resembled nothing more than weak coffee being poured out of a cup. The man next to her seems to appreciate it, his face buried in it for a few seconds, drinking it in. All around me the gray walls seem to grow further away, making me smaller, until I feel as if the cabinet of teas was impossibly high to reach. I am even more alone here. The teapot is about to buzz and all the steam will spill out. I don’t mind Elli and Andrea’s stories, I don’t mind listening to their own woes. But I have been there as well. I have tried to cover up my body with shapeless clothes and dusty hair because it was my fault men looked at me like meat. It was my fault that two boys in Pennsylvania stripped me with their eyes and would not go away, five years ago. I would like to think that I have grown out of that stupid shame since then. I would like to think of what kind of tea would heal my friends. We can sip our tea and make it all go away with essence of chamomile and sunflower seeds. With weeds growing up from the ground and cards that don’t really make much sense I will disappear like the water from the kettle that won’t quite make it into our tea. Through analysis and over analysis and a thousand things we will make all our problems go away. Both Ellie and Andrea see the desperation of our activities. I have seen their eyes fall apart at diners and in cars when they know it won’t go away. For three weeks these dishes have sat in this sink, floating in moldy water, which has spawned colonies of its own. The mold is threatening to take us over. As rent sometimes I do the dishes. With no protection I plunge my hands into hot soapy water and hope. For hours I have scrubbed away and put away plates, mugs, thoughts, only to see more pile up the next day. With mugs loaded with tension tamer tea I walk back down the stairway out to the porch. The heat of Andrea’s and Ellie’s breath mixed with the tea steam will keep me warm. Together we will cry out to each other, ignoring the dishes piling up inside. TopStringsJohn would play with the strings of my favorite cut-offs. We would simply be sitting next to the other and I would look up at the mural. I could feel the heat of his fingers against my thigh. Around they went, twisting the white strings around until they broke. His fingers would rarely actually touch me. Nothing could touch me. I would stare at the mural on the wall. A mountain was growing out of a green land. Dark green trees would fall off its sharp peaks as it rose into the orange sky. Sometimes I could taste the sky in my mouth. Its citric juices would spill out of the sides of my lips as I bit down into the sun, the great round sun. Perhaps John never noticed that I wasn’t really there. When real pieces of me surfaced his eyes grew scared. John was scared when I took the picture of him with duck tape over his hands and mouth. I ran through pipes and trees in out underground forest, away from him. To me cracks in the cement and boundless rivers were equally hard to leap across. Every particle of my being ran from him, with duck tape strings falling away from his mouth, twisting away from his face. At times John would scream for me to stop. But I could no more stop than I could stop breathing. A month after I met him I would try to stop breathing. At night I would sit on my bed and close my lips. After awhile my fingers would come up to my nose and press. They would pinch hard, crushing the walls together until they almost became one solid wall. It never worked. After about a minute the world would begin to change. Finally I was able to step through the looking glass, even if it was for only a few seconds. But that was all. By then my body would be screaming for me to stop. I would, my fingers would fly away and my throat would gasp for air on it’s own volition. My body began to protest as I ran. Inside my ribs were trying to rip through my skin for more room and my mouth tasted of blood. John was good, he was able to keep up with most of my leaps and bounds. His humanity slowed him though. I no longer cared what was there. It was all trying to reach me, it was all trying to hold me down. I ran. For no real reason at all, I ran. No longer did the man coming after me matter for he was no longer there. But still I ran. My legs would hurtle through space, one after the other. Within that space I ran through stars and planets. I ran across time and tears. No longer was there John or fingers or rooms. There was only the steady beating of my legs against a drum. It wasn’t running any more it was dancing. Stop. My chin hit the ground. A wave of earth came right back up at me until I could barely see. John was trying to shove his fingers around mine. His eyes weren’t scared anymore. I kicked back and rolled over, hanging onto what was mine. Mine by right of theft, mine by fight of blood. For a time his lips moved so that I could see the sharp teeth underneath. Beneath John I writhed, trying to break free. My feet hit his shins, hard. But, this time he hit back and his hands were at my throat. TopThree Little GirlsI am about to shatter as I sit in Ellie’s car. The cloth ceiling is stapled in, but with the warming weather the staples are beginning to fall off. Celeste, Ellie’s car, doesn’t go that fast. In fact, her top speed is 85 and she guzzles gas like you wouldn’t believe. On the outside her navy blue paint has chipped away and her wipers squeal. She is in need of a makeover as much as me. To listen to music while in Celeste, Ellie has installed an old, half broken stereo in the back. While driving along at night, we yell for other cars to move faster and sing along to Metallica or J-pop. Celeste is our mother. She takes care of us when we’re hurt and gets us where we need to go. Even when we talk about getting a new Camaro or something that can move fast, she doesn’t seem to mind. We have yet to have a breakdown in her. Sometimes we talk about Mamoru, our other car. His floors leaked and the radio had real problems, but he was ours. At night his red paint would gleam as we raced other cars down the street. At traffic lights his engine would even rev for us. Two years ago Ellie’s drunken father had to go somewhere. He killed Mamoru. Ellie, Andrea, and I went down to A.C. Moore and picked up 40 tea lights. At night we crept to the highway where Mamoru had died and lit them all. We placed them on the road and on the dead grass, around the stop signs and the red lights. They almost outglew the streetlights. Cars slowed down when they came towards us. Drivers turned their necks as far as they would go and whispered, “What are they doing? What canyou see?” Afterwards we hopped into Celeste and drove away for coffee and Tarot cards. Smoke filled the air as usual and people lent a lovely cadence to our small rituals: open the deck, spread out the silk, and pray. With hands clasped and eyes shut beg a Goddess, God, elemental, or sprite for help. Sweaty palms caress the cards and the Fool turns up. He is walking off a cliff with his head held high and his sack on his back. We discuss the cards and the cartoon, Sailor Moon. Coffee and tea mugs are exchanged for more, the humus is quickly finished off. Let us be Sailor Moon who saves the world by not fighting. Instead she bears her naked body to Galaxia and asks for love and for trust. True love is Uranus and Neptune holding out their fingers to each other as they die. Although we claim to be “neo-virgins” and “neo-children” we are not. The things that we have seen and heard will not leave the clumps of nerves that are our eyes. Now we debate what is better, to dream of life or to not dream at all. For now I am fingering my anti-bad karma beads that hold my wrists together. The beads slide up and down my arm as I count them. “One,” I whisper to the darkness and anyone else who might be listening. “Two,” Andrea intones; she seems to be catching on. Now there are three beads, three little girls holding candles for their dead car. TopSoul FoodEvery morning my Bapa would wake up and sit down in a big armchair. He sat down, settling his weight as if to seep into the foundation of the house. “Booboo,” he would say, for when my grandparents first got married she had cut herself opening a bottle of vodka, “Booboo, I need my soul food. Where’s my breakfast.” She would carry it out to him. A big glass mug full of coffee, light, a bagel with cream cheese, and lox or whitefish. As he grew older my Nanny Nee would not let him eat as much fish because it is fattening. Then there was a tall glass of orange juice presiding over it all, healthy and secure. Often Bapa would read the newspaper during breakfast. On Sundays my mother, and later me, would try to steal the comics from him. It would take hours for him to digest each article in the paper. Munching ponderously through the food, calling out every once in a while to one of the women to bring him more food. Despite years of feminism one of us would drop what we were doing and get him more coffee, more bagel, or sneak him more whitefish. In doing so we would only prolong his breakfast further. He was like the continents, drifting ever so slowly towards a goal. One day Nanny Nee had heart surgery. A routine operation turned into a triple bypass. My uncles came up to the Island. We gathered in the kitchen in the mornings trading stories of how she was doing, gulping down coffee and nibbling at bagels. On Sunday morning she was finally going to be moved out of intensive care into the cardiac ward. The move was scheduled for 6:30 in the morning and the hospital was an hour away. My mother woke Bapa up at 5:15. Within 15 minutes they had eaten breakfast and were on their way to visit Booboo. At the hospital my grandmother sat in an overlarge bed, blue tinged tubes running out of her arms. Her normally perfect hair had gotten lost on the way and her red socks sticking out from under the cover. “Last night,” she said tapping her red fingernails together, “a man would not stop singing Frank Sinatra songs. It was horrible. I don’t even like Frank Sonatra.” A red rip in her skin ran out of the hospital gown she wore. It moved up and down as she breathed. Nanny Nee sighed as she slowly got up. “I need to use the bathroom,” she said, watching my mother move her chair. Bapa got up, “Booboo, Booboo let me help you!” He shuffled around his chair, trying to move it out of her way. In his rush his glasses spilled out of his pocket and clattered onto the floor. Crouching down, he chased them around the room, a live fish, they kept slipping away from him. “Harold! I need to use the bathroom! I can use it myself, I’m a big girl you know,” she said looking down at him. “We’re going to have to work this out you know. I won’t have you following me around everywhere. I can take care of myself! Now let me use that bathroom. And Suzy, I need a shower. Do you know that nurse hasn’t even given me a shower yet?” With that she bent down and picked up Bapa’s glasses handing them to him. Halfway up she stopped. Bapa placed a hand on her back. “Booboo,” he whispered gruffly, “you have to let me help with some things.” Slowly she straightened up again. “I can take care of myself, Harold, just give me some space,” and she walked into the bathroom. When she came out again the three drank some of my Aunt’s soup, Nanny Nee’s favorite of course. Mom fussed over how cold it was in the room. TopSurrealistic StoriesGlassThis was home. The seat backs formed two walls, the chair a floor, and the windows my view of the world. For now the world consists of black trees hugging the cement closely and whizzing by at the speed of light. Brian and Ariel talked quietly in the front. They say little to each other, but with each stupid flicker of an eyelash the other knows. Brian once looked ay Ariel and knew her back hurt from the way she was sitting, from a slight muscle ripple. I am left out of their silent world where the lights are all red. Here everything is white and piercing into me. The trees are much more welcoming on the side. If I stretch out just right, my head on the armrest and my toes on the window, I can feel the car vibrating. As I close my eyes I sink deeper, becoming the car. Thrum, my toes are in the headlights, shining like glass. The window glass is really warm and my toes seem to be melting into it. As I wiggle, bright light diffracts every which way. Glass. Glass is sliding down my foot. It stops at my ankles. In the city I would dance over the cement, calling it stars. As a child you can get away with creativity. My feet would carry me across the world and into the arms of heaven. Little fairies used to live in Central Park pushing leaves across the lake. Now the glass is rushing up my legs and onto my thighs. A slight lapping of the liquid glass invades the mumbles and whisperings. No one turns this way in curiosity but me. This is a private symphony. “Dreams are made of glass,” a friend once said to me. She ran her fist through a mirror as the words slipped out of her mouth. We watched silently as the blood rolled down her fist. No more will I bleed as glass crawls up to my chest. Breathing is not really necessary although we pretend it is. There is something between breaths. Not a shadow, peace. Over me the glass is gaining speed, crashing down and filling my arms and fingers. Hair pricks up and is enveloped by a tsunami. My eyes are submerged and each hair on my head frozen into clearness. The trees outside are growing closer as the window glass ejects me. Branches I though I had seem a thousand times are in sharp relief. For a beautiful second I am flying in the air, perfectly invisible. Peace. Heaven. Stars. Behind a truck from the Metropolitan Art Museum holds court. “Hey a statue just fell out of that car!” a driver blinks. “What are you talking about?” the black box squeals and the statues falls, shattering into a thousand pieces. TopSproutingShe often liked to go for walks at night when the light was dark and dim. The streets would shine like precious metals under the lamps and she would sing softly to herself. However, she was never allowed to actually go. So each night she would wait until the only sounds were the light sounds of breathing and she would crawl out of her bed. Under the moon, under the stars, she would open her window and climb down onto the lilac tree. Then she would start to walk. Sometimes they were long walks that seemed to wind around the whole town, and other times they would be short walks that only circled one block. But every night she went. In the winter cold snowflakes would descend and in the summer her skin would gleam with sweat. But every night she went. Over the years she began to know her different paths very well, until each step seemed perfectly sketched within her mind. She could tell when new plants had grown in between the sidewalk and when old ones had died. Over the years she was beginning to notice that more plants were dying than growing back. Sometimes when she woke up in the morning the bottoms of her feet would be strange colors. Once they were even as orange as a sunset. None of this really bothered her however, in fact sometimes she thought it was even kind of pretty. One night though she cut her foot on a piece of glass. The blood streamed out of her foot like poured water onto the cement. For the first time she consciously stopped and looked down. Her little eyes grew so wide that she had shut them tight and her mouth opened into a little oh. After she uncurled her body she continued around the block and climbed up the lilac tree to go home. The small flowers were in bloom, their little mouths opened wide to the moon. She sat along them, cradled in their gentle fragrance. For hours or for seconds she sat there, waiting, waiting till it was safe to go home. Before the streets had all seemed arbitrary. One led to another and that was that, the flowers all bloomed sometimes and the streets all gleamed. But then there had been the tree. It's branches reached upward to the heavens and it's gnarled bark was as creased as the earth. Soon all the roads seemed to lead there. Every night she would walk past it and stand there waiting. A silent green hush would cover the world until the only sounds was the singing of the tree. Moss began to climb up it's base, and birds began to steel it's twigs. Still it sang. She would stand there, enveloped and safe. This night there were sounds from inside the house. A human's breathe filled her room as she swung into the lilac tree. They wouldn't go away. In the dark the clock ticked and ticked, waiting, watching, watching, waiting. Her limbs flew over the sill and thudded down, one by one. Two eyes cried at her. "Where have you been?" uttering a garbled moan. What was there to say? The eyes got up and fluttered towards the window, looking out, "where have you been?" they repeated, "where have been, where have you been, Where Have You Been!" Little eyes only looked back, so big she had to clench them shut. Click, click, and the window was shut, sound waves screamed through the room. Click, click went the other. Finally the eyes got up and left. All through the day she saw the tree. It's green leaves called to her. Within the moss of her mind it grew tall and strong. The bickering breezes could not move it and the earth could not shake it loose. It kept growing taller and taller until it eclipsed all the other things. The leaves filled up her ears until she could no longer hear and the branches obscured her vision. She was safe here, she was happy. That night she got up and went to open the window. Outside the streets were gleaming and the tree was singing. Her hands slamed into the plastic and fell back useless. Thudd, they went again. And again, and again. Perhaps her body would work, the lilacs would catch her. Thud, thud, thud until feet ran into the room and hands grabbed her. "Stop that!" They wrestled her into the bed and clamped the sheets upon her. "Stay here, why can't you stay?" She was packaged into clothes and driven around by the hands the next day. Needles went under her skin and drew the blood that had flowed so easily into the cement before. Shin y glasses tried to ask her questions about her friends and family, about her happy times, and had she be depressed. The hands took her out for a bagel and coffee and cradled her, rocking, "You can tell me, you can tell me everything, I'll understand, I really will. You can tell me anything." until the salt got in both of their mouths and the hands was forced to stop. But she could not hear anything but the tree singing and she could not see anything but the oh so green leaves. The next night the window was open as she went out. As she walked along the shining paths a dark object loomed behind her. Slish, slish went her feet on the pavement. They knew where to take her, where to go. There stood the tree in all it's power, gleaming under the moon. But the dark shape could not see it. The moss had gone all the way the trunk and the birds had picked away most of the leaves. She went over to it for the first time and laid her hand upon the moss. She could still hear the song. It went through her palm and into her blood, circling and swirling around. So loud, so fast, so happy, around and around she went. All the hands could do were wait. She cracked, her body fell down, split in two. Down into the earth, down into the moss. Far away the lilacs cried out and the window shuddered. Everything was screaming. After an eternity, the hands rushed over to pick up the pieces. But they were covered in salt. TopFantasy StoriesCompanionA thousand men lay on the field.A small red stream trickled down; it was beautiful in a quiet way. Nothing moved or uttered a sound, not even grasshoppers or birds. Even the wind left the field alone. The sky was clear. Wild flowers poked up where people hadn't fallen. Only awhile ago the air had rung with shouts and cries. The grass was trampled; the earth dug up. Two armies had clashed; two kingdoms had bled on that field. Soon both countries would send couriers and soldiers to find out what had happened to their fallen brothers. Far away from the field, women, children, and men would cry. One man slowly came to consciousness. He opened his eyes and saw a girl dancing. Her feet never touched the ground. She twirled in the sunlight. At each body she would whisper something, then clap or snap her fingers. The girl was every color imaginable, from head to toe. He blinked and still she was still there. “Must be hallucinating,” he mumbled, then fell back into the darkness. When the man awoke he saw a girl, though certainly not the same one as before. Her dress was made of the same drab material his servants wore, her hair was the color of mud, her skin burnt. She took out some objects from a sack she had been carrying. “Where does it hurt?” she asked. “My left leg and cheek. Where . . .?” he asked. The girl didn’t answer; instead she applied a potion to his wounds; there was a little pain, then a cooling sensation. “Thank you, but you should attend others now,” he stammered. “There are no others,” she said quietly, packing away her supplies. “Come, I know a safe place. Can you walk?” The man began to rise; he stumbled after the first step. The girl supported him. “I don’t need the help,” he croaked. The girl stayed under his arm and slowly walked toward a hill. He stared ahead and tried to see where the peasant girl was leading him, attempting not to look at the bodies. After walking painfully slow for some time, the man began to find the girl’s silence disconcerting. Whenever he looked, the girl’s face showed no emotion. Finally, as the sun set, they stopped. The man was confused when the girl disappeared behind a boulder; he had thought she would go to a farm, not a hill. Soon, she returned to his side and walked toward the boulder. “Safe,” she said. Behind the boulder was an entrance to a tunnel in the hill. There was very little light, just enough to make out shapes. It was empty and silent, like an ancient shrine. Then the girl stopped. She helped him sit down and rummaged through her sack. The room was almost totally dark; then a loud crack and another. The girl lit a torch; gradually the flame grew lighting the room dimly. The room was huge. Stones, rock, and brick were piled in places and broken pillars stood among the rubble. Otherwise, the room was bare. Nothing disturbed this place. “My thanks again, but what is this place?” the man asked. The girl was silent; she began to undo a bedroll. Out of her sack came jars, and a bundle of rags. The man spoke again in hope of starting a conversation, “My name is Yvel A'Marinde, I’m a bard turned knight.” The girl stared at him for a moment then went back to her work of arranging the jars. “Where are you from?” Yvel asked. “I found this . . . old palace. It’s safe,” the girl stated. Yvel wondered about her; she couldn’t be a half-wit for she knew herbs. Why wouldn’t she talk? The girl continued with her chore, oblivious to him until finally she sat back on her knees and turned to him. “I need to see your wounds,” she said softly. She applied a potion to them, said “wood,” and left. Yvel sat, staring at the room. He tried to contain his curiosity; but in the end he rose to wander. His footfalls echoed and dust clouded where he stepped. It was strange, for the girl made no noise or dust when she walked. Yvel examined a stone; it was white like marble, though not as smooth. Farther back an arch was made of the same material. “It must have led to another room,” he whispered. Yvel looked around the room again; the piles of rock began to take shape. A wall once might have stood to his far left or a fireplace farther down. “Tremendous,” he whispered, “it must have been huge.” The room was colder. Yvel hoped the girl would return soon with firewood. He lay down, curled in a ball and thought about his family, his king and the master bard. Memories of his friends, many of who were dead, flooded his consciousness. Their images swirled around, a kaleidoscope of people in his mind. Scenes from his life, not all of them pleasant, came to him as he lay there. Finally, he awakened from his reverie. The girl returned; arms loaded with firewood. She set it down, kneeling. Placing her hand on Yvel’s forehead, the girl studied his cheek intently. Then after a few minutes she opened her jars again. Silently and forcibly she swabbed his cheek with a cloth. The girl mixed water and other potions in a cup. “Drink this,” she commanded him softly, holding out the cup. Slowly Yvel took the cup and drank its contents. He started to shiver. She continued washing his wounds until he stopped. By then there was barely enough light to see. The girl put her cloak upon the ground, slept and the torch began to sputter, dying quickly. Yvel stared into the darkness and hoped to hear the night noises he had become accustomed to, but none came. It was deathly still. He closed his eyes and fell asleep. * * * In Yvel's dream, torches flared and the room filled with the dull roar of people talking and laughing. Musicians played; men and women danced or drank with children underfoot. “Rowdy tonight, isn’t it friend,” a large man said, putting down his beer. “Shall you sing?” “Not the songs you’re thinking of. There are children and ladies present. Besides we're in the palace,” Yvel laughed. “Where has my wife gotten to?” “I love Yavahl, it's my favorite holiday! Why look, it’s our old friend, Veth! Come over here you sot!” Marcus cried out. His face grew even merrier. “Yvel! Marcus," shouted Veth. This holiday is rightly named; life is certainly a joy. Oh, Yvel, your wife wants you; she’s by the musicians,” Veth said cheerfully. Yvel made his way through the crowd of people. He gracefully edged his way around the dancers, then over to the musicians. His wife smiled at him and holding out her hand. He kissed it and she laughed. “I'd just found you when you were captured by the dreaded Marcus. I'd never have seen you again if it weren’t for Veth! Have you seen his wife? She's so lovely, very polite too,” Lara smiled at her husband. “Not as pretty as you,” Yvel said, “Shall we dance now? I’m afraid I'll have to sing later.” He led Lara onto the dance floor bowing to her. The music started and the two began to dance. "Will you have to sing? It just seems so much; you having to sing tonight and on Navahl,” Lara frowned. “I’m only singing tonight because the other bard is drunk,” he sighed, “Besides, all master bards are required to sing here. I'd much rather spend the time with you and the children. Would you smile! Save your frown for Navahl, you’ll be considered very pious if you do.” Lara smiled for him and the music played on. * * * Yvel slowly opened his eyes, wondering where he was; his leg hurt. He remembered; a chill went through him. Those people in the dream; they had been so real! But, he had never met them before! Slowly the room lightened. He looked for the girl; she wasn’t there. Yvel waited for her return. Yvel wanted to leave this desolate place! Soon, the girl arrived; she came over and applied herbs to his leg. “Can you take me back to the field to get my hand harp and things?” Yvel asked. She looked at him, as if reading his mind, then nodded. Yvel stretched, his leg had stopped hurting. The girl was plain but her herbs were miraculous. She started walking and he followed. Soon the sun shone down upon them. They walked in silence for a time. Birds flew by, but none sang. Yvel thought of his fallen friends, who had died for king, honor, and country. “What a waste,” he muttered. For some reason he felt compelled to say something. “The battle was over land and honor. So stupid . . . neither kingdom needed either. “Those who died in the first hour were lucky. They died normally, if being beaten to death is normal; I prefer old age. Then, the wizards started to fight with magic. It was horrible,” he tried to blink away the memories. “Finally, one of them decided if his side couldn’t win, no one would. I’m not sure why I survived; maybe he thought I was dead.” They came to the field. “So stupid, just so stupid.” Biting his lip Yvel went toward a group of bodies, looking for a gray leather bag. Then he saw it; the once-gray bag was brown. As Yvel picked it up he saw a body. Tears began to roll down his face, shining in the sun. “Ageth! Not you! Oh, Ageth, you guarded it to the end. Ageth, friend, why? Why did we ever come? Why?!” * * * Yvel ran his fingers down his harp. The firelight flickered casting strange shadows, in the dark. Randomly plucking strings, his eyes stared into nothingness. It had started raining as soon as the sun set. Somehow the room stayed dry. “We’re all shadows,” he mused. “Since no one can be entirely good, then no one can be totally evil, I suppose. My friends, why did you have to leave me? Now I'm the only survivor, a war hero. I'll be expected to tell of war’s glories; but how I hate it now.” He was silent again. The fire crackled. “And you, where are you from? You could be famous, wealthy for your skill in herbs. Yet, you're here with me. Yes, here, in this forsaken place. What this place? Who lived here? Why don't you answer me?! You're neither deaf nor mute; why don't you talk!” he yelled. The girl ignored him, as he stared at her. “Why?” Yvel asked in a whisper, “why do you not speak.” He fell silent. The girl gazed at his face. “Because,” she said softly, “I must listen.” Yvel stopped for a moment then resumed playing his hand harp. Neither spoke again; except for the harp and the rain, not a sound could be heard. * * * Lapsing into his dream, Lara tapped her foot impatiently. “We'll be late,” she complained. Her face looked even paler than usual in contrast to the dark black she wore. Yvel emerged from the room and kissed his wife. “Dear, it’s Navahl!” The two left their rooms starting down the hall. Torches added light to the hallways. After a series of twists and turns, they came to the main hall where they met Marcus, Veth, and their wives. “Well, let’s be on our way, we might as well get this whole ceremony over with,” Yvel proclaimed leading the way. “I'm glad you're singing. You sing beautifully," Veth’s wife, Renil said. “You overate my skills greatly,” Yvel replied. The group walked onward. The hall was quiet and subdued. Even the rowdiest souls were humble today. Soon, they reached the two large wooden doors that led to the ballroom. They were draped with white and black cloth. The ballroom was huge. Arches rose high across tiled floors. The ceiling curved and met at a grand height. At the east end a large dais stood; white and black robed priests stood on it. Yvel went over to the dais and put his harp next to a hand drum. He and Lara stood quietly talking. “I thought you were to sing?” Lara whispered. “I’m hoping that I won’t,” he replied. Soon the room was almost full of people in black. A gong sounded, reverberating throughout the room. Everyone turned their eyes to a priest on the dais. He raised his hands palms up. “My sisters and brothers, life comes and goes in never ending cycles. For two nights we have feasted and danced. We have celebrated life, the Yavahl. Now we celebrate its greatest enemy and greatest friend, death, the Navahl. The one true equalizer," the priest dropped his hands. Bards assembled at the back of the dais raising their instruments. The men and women on the floor joined hands forming circles; the music began. It was slow, but the tempo quickened. Dancers circled each other broke up, and formed new rings. Except for the music and a light thud of feet, the room was quiet. Time itself almost seemed to stop for the dancers. No one tired or hurt; everything was the dance. When everyone had been through the cycle, the music stopped. They came back to reality, like sleepers awakening from a long dream. Everyone sat listening to the priests talk. As the sun began to set, Yvel came to the front of the dais. Other bards and professional dancers joined him. They began to form a pattern. Yvel started to sing. Dancers moved and instruments played. Soon the audience was entranced. Yvel sang of death . . . its shapes, sizes, beauty and hideousness . . . of its harshness and kindness. He sang the epic that every bard knew by heart and most people could quote. The dance and music was disjointed, but yet whole. Slowly, it ended and the priest came up to the front, “ . . . and may she collect our souls in her dance. Now let us arise into a new cycle for the sun has set. Now let it be the year 566!" and he clapped his hands. * * *
“1096,” she said quietly. She turned around and looked at him. She almost seemed to penetrate his inner self with her stare. “Why?” “So you can speak. ‘And it can be anything or anyone, a peasant, a king, a slave. It can be girl or boy. But, it always is among us, death,’" quoting from his dream. "I know who you are. Why? Why didn’t you leave me there? Why did you give me those dreams?” Yvel rose. “Why did you bother?!” “I didn’t give you the dreams,” the girl said. She, rose and suddenly, instead of the ugly peasant, there stood the girl from the hallucination. Yvel noticed her eyes now; they were black, infinite. If Yvel looked closely he could even see stars. “This place gave you the dreams; you were right it is ancient.” Yvel bowed down low and calmed himself. “My lady,” he said. She took a step forward and gave him her hand. He kissed it; it was cold like snow and hard. She pulled it back. Yvel closed his eyes. “I suppose it's my time,” he said softly. “Yes, it is,” Death said. “I shall put you on the hill with the others.” “May I ask a question?” Death nodded. “Why did you bring me here? You could have just let me die.” “I wanted to see if humans had any redeeming qualities. You seem so eager to kill each other off. This place was my one shrine. I have always liked it. It is strong in power, which is why it called to you. It wanted to help you. Now, it is your time. Such a shame.” “What is a shame?” Yvel asked. “Your wife, the real one, she shall wed the Lord Gavon once the mourning period is over. Now, it is time for you to decide your last wish. Mortals get two, one from their fellows and one from me. Don’t waste it; my powers only go so far,” Death stared at him. “My wife shall be happy with her new husband’s glory. My daughters and son too, with their newfound wealth. They'll all be better off. I loved them. But, they never seemed to love me. I can't think of anyone who needs my help. In the dream I was happier. There, I was needed and loved,” Yvel said bitterly. “It must be lonely being death; I can’t think of anyone who welcomes you. I wish that one day you will find someone to accompany you on your journeys,” said Yvel, falling silent. “That is the kindest thing a mortal has ever done for me.” A tear rolled down Death’s cheek. “But, the time has come.” She took Yvel’s hands in hers and started dancing. Yvel could almost hear the music. The fire went out, but Death almost seemed to glow. They danced together in circles. Death stopped and kissed Yvel on the forehead. His eyes closed for the last time. And he smiled. …In a hut, a peasant woman weeped. A child sat in a corner not knowing what to do. More people soon came in to console the poor widow. The child went outside. It was raining; but if you looked closely, you could see two figures dancing and talking. One was every color known. On the field a thousand flowers began to grow again. TopOdileI was created only to last one night. Von Rothbart took hold of my face and carved another’s likeness into it. He could not even be original. How many times has the story of the woman enchantress been told, how many? Unlike you, I know who my creator is and he is only a man. When von Rothbart first saw me he smiled. His teeth pointed into fangs as I began to cry, he had finally captured his love, Odette in another’s body. Prince Siegfried would have me and von Rothbart would have the real woman. He did not even care enough for me to keep me. I was his only daughter, his only true creation. All the other spells warped reality. In me he had become a god. Perhaps that is why he believed he could triumph over their love. But he was only a man. For the ball he dressed me in black feathers. As we left all the swans gathered around me, screeching and looking back at Odette. They attacked me as she ran away. Odette was too good to fight back, she needed her prince, because of me she could martyr herself against the stained glass window. Because of me her and Siegfried could find freedom in their lake of tears. Von Rothbart had taken all her anger and all her sex into me. I am the dirty side; even von Rothbart did not want me for more than one night. It is Odile who sets Odette free. Without me she would never have had death, never had Siegfried forever. But then, she was only a woman. I am a god. TopFifteen DropsThere was once a woodcutter's daughter who lived near the forest. It was a strange forest, filled with overgreen trees and too blue streams. Sometimes on cold winter nights the blacksmith would tell strange stories of the forest and it's inhabitants. These tales of wispy blue elvish maidens and rogue hobs would keep the children entertained and fearful of the forest. Mara, the woodcutter's daughter, liked the forest. There she could walk for hours and escape from her chores. Understanding of the need to be alone, the woodcutter saw no trouble in this, and allowed her to walk in the afternoons, as long as she promised to stay on the path. However, one day Mara heard the most beautiful song off of the path. Warm lilacs beckoned her and she carefully followed them. Through the lilac trees Mara pushed her way to a red stream. It's water leaped among the stones, changing them into wonderful beings. Mara's eyes grew wide as she put her fingers in the water. When she closed her eyes Mara could hear the song of the forest. Slowly, she put her fingers to her lips and drank the water. The next day Harriet, the farmer's wife, was in an uproar. Her chickens had been killed the night before and she had seen small footsteps leading away from the pen. "It's the Dubh Fitheach!" she cried to any who would listen, pointing to the blacksmith for conformation. He would nod his big head back at her and continue hammering away at his hearth. That night some of the young men volunteered to stay up in wait of the shapeshifting bird. Five of the youths crowded around a smothering fire with swords at their side, looking into the black sky for a black bird. One by one they fell asleep until only Baerch, the blacksmith's son, was awake. He could hear all the sounds of the forest for miles and kept his sword out upon his lap. "It will come," he said quietly, "it will come and I will be ready for it." But instead only Mara's light footsteps could be heard on the dull earth. She sat next to him and laid out a dinner. The two ate the bread and meat she had brought in silence, listening for the great bird. Five more of Harriet's chickens were killed when the young men woke up the next morning. Each claimed that he had been lulled to sleep by the song of the Dubh Fitheach except for Braech. Instead Braech stood silent among the townsfolk, hanging his head low. The other four youths volunteered to stay up again and watch for the bird, this time with some of Airgiod's charms to keep them safe. It was of no use, each night the four stayed up and each night four more of the village's chickens were killed. Baerch grew paler each day until could no longer work with his father. Mara would visit, holding his cold palm and rubbing Airgiod's charms against it. Often she would fall asleep at his side. Through her dreams a corpse ran after her with a bright sword. Three days later Airgiod visited the blacksmith's hut and saw Mara sleeping by Baerch's side. "You are the evil child," she rasped out, placing an emaciated hand upon Mara's cheek. Quickly Mara's eyes opened and stared at the old woman. "You are the cause of the chickens and Baerch. They will all continue to die until you leave child. Leave child. At night I see your dreams and your teeth feasting upon our blood. Leave, and seek the black sword. Do not return until you have dropped fifteen drops of you're hearts blood into his veins. Leave child and take the old path, past the forest and past the heath until you come to the Boglach, there you will find the sword. Speak to no one on the way and take none but the bread you have baked. Leave child before the sun sets, or I shall be the end of you." With these words Mara fled the hut, red tears falling from her eyes. The old path was a dark brown. Deep cracks filled it's entirety, grabbing at Mara's feet and making her wonder if there had ever been straight. Yellow greens caught her attention and she longed to sing to them. To sing out her story and her pain, but instead her lips stayed self consciously sealed. After a time the sun grew dim and Mara looked for a rock to hide under, the blacksmith's tales haunting her mind. At night it began to rain. The water filled the path and threatened Mara's dry rock, she had been afraid to go far away lest she lose it. A small fire was all she had to keep her warm and only her hard bread to keep her company. She curled close to the fire and lifted her fingers to eat the bread when she heard a voice. "I am hungry Mara, can I have some of your bread?" Frightened Mara handed a piece to Baerch who sat on the other side of her fire. Instead of cream his skin glowed silver in the stormlight and through his skin Mara could see the red water flowing through his veins. "I can see so much this way Mara. All the stories my father told were true. I have talked with the hobs and danced with the elves Mara. I have sung with the Bourne. But I am hungry Mara, give me your bread." Silently she pushed her bread towards him, red tears falling once more. "Don't cry Mara," he whispered after he finished his bread and put his cold hand upon her cheek. Three roses sprang from her tears, silver, gold, and black. "These are all I can give you for the bread." With that, he vanished, letting the roses fall to the ground. Mara woke with the roses pressed against her chest. She took what little bread she had in her sack with her and wrapped the roses in cloth from her underskirt. Today the path was not as bad. It was beginning to open up more until she could see the heath ahead of her. It stretched out for miles, dry grass cracking in the sunlight and dead trees falling over. Clutching the green of the forest to her, Mara walked on, waiting for the trees to end. For most of the day Mara continued on the path, watching the growing heath ahead of her. Some birds found her silent figure so intriguing that they followed her. Light footfalls resounded as she trampled over mud and moss. Every trace of her village had disappeared and she was alone. When the sun was halfway through the sky Mara stopped to fill her aching stomach. As she was finishing the last of her breadcrumbs a hound found her. His baying filled he air, to be answered by the clanking of a knight and his manservants. "Who are you!" he cried out at Mara, stopping his brown stallion in mid-motion. "Are tree spirits pretending to be human? Or a serf running from her home?" He chuckled at this last phrase, setting his dark eyes upon Mara's brown ones. His manservants circled her as she rose her head and looked back upon him. "Impertinant girl!" he roared, "but we may have some sport with her yet, aye!" With a large hand he motioned his steed closer. "What is your name impertinent one? Is it Elsa or Bronwynn, perhaps Donn, for you are so brown with mud. Do you think she is pretty beneath all that?" All around his manservants came closer, swords still by their sides. "And she still does not speak! Ah well, all she has do is squeal." With that he came closer and went to pick her up. Mara closed her fingers around the silver rose until she bled. She held it in front of her with eyes shut and waited for the magic of the Fae. From the petals shot out a thousand steel thistles as Mara's eyes opened wide. The men rushed at her, blood streaming from their eyes. "She is fae lord! Fae!" they cried as the knight fell to the ground, choking on his words. In her hands the rose crumbled and Mara ran. On her back the sack thumped hard and on her feet, her boots threatened to fall off. Mara ran until she was out of the forest, she ran until it was nightfall. Around her the heath stretched. It's cracks ran deep through the dry earth, uprooted only by black shrubs. There was no path, only dry dust. Next to a dead tree Mara collapsed, sleeping tight in it's black hollow. All around her the dry soil crackled as Mara tried to follow straight line. It was impossible to keep on the old path, for there a thousand paths and no paths all at once. The best she could do was follow the sun. Strange birds pursued her as the day wore on and Mara's feet grew weary. Against her back, Mara's sack drummed a song to her journeying, keeping her awake. When it seemed as if Mara could no longer stand in the bright sun, three lady's appeared. Each was as beautiful as could be, there long dresses trailing the dust ground and they're jewels choking their necks. The first was clothed in deep gold, fine stitching covered the cloth, and deep gold laced her amber jewels together. Thick white hair fell to the ground. She held a golden box. Next came a darker lady. Dark short hair revealed sparkling diamonds in the night of her ears. Along her waif body black satin hung and her fingers held a silver globe. Finally the third hung behind them. Her skin so thin the purple of her blood blossomed beneath it. Purple roses flowed along her wrists and amethysts draped the hem of her dress. A small flower lay in her hands. "You are no prince!" the first cried out, her blue eyes crinkling. "You are but a muddy girl!" screeched the second, "A prince was to come to us." "But she is here," whispered the third. "You must chose one child." She held out her flower to Mara, waiting for the others to follow suit. But instead the first shrieked, bringing up her hands. The second followed suit, rushing towards her, claws outstretched. Confused, the third stepped back in horror. "Stop!" she cried, delicate hands going to overburdened head. Grabbing the third rose Mara flung it towards the three, trying to run again. The first saw it glinting in the sunlight and bent to pick it up. "Gold!" she cried, holding it high. "Mine," she said wistfully. But her second had other thoughts and went to grab it. In the distance the two tousled as Mara ran away. The heath turned into bog as Mara ran. Her feet could not stop anymore, her empty sack thumped upon her back. "Let us fly!" it cried as mud dragged her feet down in the earth. Gnarled trees blocked her way and longed for water ran into her boots. Small rocks served as points her to jump off, over the small rivulets and large rivers. Ahead of her ruins rose in the sun, ribs poking out to the sky. Tentatively, Mara stepped inside. She dragged small rivers in with her. Her small footsteps unsuccessfully tried to echo in the half fallen halls. Here was Mara's dream. A black throne stood at the top of the hall. Silent wolves cried out to the night, their silver eyes blinking in and out of the moon. Small white bones stood atop it, holding a dull black sword. "You," Mara's eyes whispered. She walked towards the throne, hands greedy for the sword. As her fingers rested upon it's hilt, a wolf howled in the distance. The throne began to writhe under Mara's grasp. Her fingers turned white as the wolves flowed silently out of the throne. "Mine!" her eyes flashed. Their howls filled the sky. Mara reached into the bag and withdrew the last rose. In the night, her red blood slicked her fingers. Slowly the rose came to life in her fingers. It's petals grew large, turning into soft fur and it's thorns retracted into claws. A red wolf stood upon the dais with her. As the wolves attacked, the rose-wolf bared it's teeth and bit into their necks. Mara began to slip in the blood as she tried to wrench the sword free from the corpse's grasp. Behind her eyes Mara could see the stream flowing out of her fingers. With her own songs she pushed it forward and out through her mouth, her fingers, her toes. A red river rushed through her, covering the dais, covering the halls. Her fingers clenched harder once more and the sword came loose. With a howl the wolves were washed away. Mara opened her eyes the next morning. All around her the marsh had turned green. Blue flowers blossomed along the vines which now covered the throne. Mara smiled. She walked for three days, through the marsh, over the heat, and into the forest. A hill of roses had begun to cover the heath. In the forest Mara found vines drawing the Knight's silver armor into the earth. Three days after Mara had retrieved the sword, she entered her village. The black steel hid in her brown skirts as she approached Airgiod. "You have brought it, child" the crone cracked between broken lips. Mara nodded. Over the crones head the village looked out upon her. Farmers made the evil eye and women hid their children. The four youths glared at her. But Mara smiled as she walked into the blacksmith's hut. On the floor Baerch lay on fresh reeds. Brushing away his hair from his forehead Mara knelt down. Airgiod stood in the doorway and waited. "Child" she whispered, "hurry child, he is dying." Mara drew the sword from her skirts and pressed it to her breast. Leaning down she kissed Baerch and pressed down. Fifteen drops fell from her skin to Baerch. They seeped into his pale skin and flew through his body. His eyes opened. "I am sorry," Mara whispered. "It was nothing," Baerch whispered back. The two took the others hand and walked out. They walked through the village and into the forest. Mara with a sword by her side and Baerch with tales in his head. Top |
