There are lots of words for it; egocentrism, arrogance, narcissism, conceit, vainglory, etc., but in this instance we’ll call it “smugness”. Our boy is looking and feeling “smug” … a wee bit repentant, of course, but mostly smug.

Because, yet again, he had been right! Mind you it is not easy being right, not with any consistency. Being right requires not only a mind guided by good old-fashioned common sense, but also a requisite, updated knowledge of the sciences, histories, philosophies and literatures. One must put in the work to be consistently right. A blow-hard cannot pull it off, though he will try. And Constantine Goolsby had been right once again! Ha, ha! And the look on her face when his rightness was proved to her had been golden, and had made it well worth the long, wintry ride Constantine had had to suffer just to show her that he was, indeed and again, right. Ha! Constantine’s chuckle was startling enough in the quiet stillness of the snowy afternoon to jerk his exhausted horse’s head up, and to cock its sagging ears his way.

Yes. “Smug” is the word.

And the December afternoon was quiet; so very, deathly quiet. Quiet as midnight, as if the whole world was asleep, or as if Constantine himself was asleep. It was the sort of snowfall where one could tip his head back, open his mouth wide, and catch flake after flake upon the tip of his tongue without hardly trying, so Constantine childishly did just that. The flakes were coming straight down and large, accumulating deep enough on the ground now to muffle the horse’s heavy hooves. Not even his saddle creaked to break the quiet. The snow muffled it all. Everything. It was as though he was lost in a snow globe with bits of frozen matter falling, falling, falling all around, and a glass dome to insulate him from the outside world.

It was also creepy, the silence, leaving him alone to think. Sometimes being smart was not so good. Being always right had its consequences, didn’t it? Sometimes Constantine wished he could escape himself, and this was one of those times.

She had been surprised! The wonder of his appearance had been apparent on her face; in her eyes. His heart had leapt at it… at her astonishment. And the way her astonishment had morphed into fear when he’d drawn his pistol, morphing so easily and readily that the expressions had almost been the same, and could easily have been confused for one another by someone who was not so sure of himself as Constantine. And “his” eyes had changed to… that guy’s.

“God,” Constantine thought as he rocked easy in the saddle, “what in Heaven’s name had the two of them been doing when he’d barged in with his, “Ha!” What exactly was that position they were in? Constantine had never seen anything like it, nor even imagined it! His neck grew warm at the thought of it. And his Laura Lee, too! Who would have thought?

Maybe he was not “always” right, after all. Maybe he’d been wrong this time… what he’d done back there. In any event there would be no one awaiting him at the cabin when he got there; no one to talk to. No one to admire his competence. No one to cook his dinner. The cabin would be as quiet as this snow globe he was in, and as lonely too. Maybe he should have been wrong this time. Maybe if he’d been wrong then his Laura Lee would could home. Maybe she would. Maybe.

Removing his glove from the one hand, Constantine pulled the pistol from its holster. The click of the cylinder opening was loud in the silence that was the snow globe. He shucked some shells one at a time from his belt and filled the empty chambers. He held the pistol for a long while, resting it in his lap, liking the way the butt of it felt in his hand, the ergonomics of it, and remembering how it had so violently bucked back yonder.

Without replacing his glove Constantine lifted the pistol’s barrel up to his temple, only somewhat sure that he was right.

I am so weary of this place

I want to leave

but can't of my own accord

I will have to wait

until this existence

rejects me

so completely

so fully

one last time

and as I wait

I realize

I've been packing

for this trip

my entire life

once upon a razor's edge

a suicidal window ledge

depression razed a fertile hedge

another soul from life to dredge

in vacant eyes, teardrops glistened

darkness wound through tunnel vision

silence bound, with none to listen

the scalpel drew a deep incision

as crimson flowed across the sedge

a bitter vow, a mournful pledge

depression razed a fertile hedge

another soul from life to dredge

Dark hours arrive on

bright days,

Blossoms

On graves.

Sadness makes it’s way

Past laughter

In subtle streams

And tidal waves.

Heart break

Is the ache

Of a great abyss,

There’s no bottom

To sorrow, and

no way to resist.

Warm skies

Smeared by

Tears of pain.

Soul cries

Dulled by

Tones of gray

Faces

Of loved ones

Taken away.

.

.

Samhain has begun

Falling leaves are soon to come

Lost ones' texts of love

.

.

She loves me more than the moon

She told me the other day,

As I tried to imagine

How much can one love the moon?

But I know my love for the stars

On a cold night

Brings me warmth

Immersed in a dark sky.

She removed her glasses

And looked at me, smiling, she said

“I can see my reflection in your eyes,”

I touched her face, on both sides

And tried to see mine.

There are those moments

Too deep to speak,

Too close to touch,

Just long enough to breathe.

It’s those times when life

Is perfectly balanced

Between the bitter and sweet,

And the after taste is like the after glow

In the late afternoon,

When the orange sun dips into red

Turning the day

into the hour that burns

Leaving the remnants of pretty colors

Slowly fading.

There is an art to loving

And letting go,

Swinging through the layers of pain

-Being afraid

While holding tightly onto hope.

If it hurts myself to love you

I will love you still

And if it hurts you to know what true love is

I will still not withhold it from you.

You say you love me more than the moon,

I say I love you more than the stars,

But true love is not measured by size

But by how far.

She said that she loves me

more than the moon.

She told me this the other day

I tried to imagine,

just how much can one love the moon?

I find rest

between

Winters stretch

And spring

I find all I lack

In dreaming.

I find life

Inside

One moment

at a time

I find all I need

In breathing.

The slow poison

Of remembered ecstasy

Eats away at me

As I sit here

Waiting for the light

To change

I dreamt I

was inside out

that I could see

me as only you

usually see me

quiet, composed

polished, solid

...and you saw

the skeleton,

that holds me

the spiny

exhibition of

a traveling zoo

'No Touching'

the sign says

but there's strong

impulse on

seeing that

ribcage

to stick a finger

or pebble through,

see if, something

moves...

You are the Monarch

in need of salt

and in here

I stood

very still, your

antennae landing

circling a smile

upon my beating heart

and to the empty room

whispering:

Thank you...

the closer we get

the better we see

the reflection

of ourself...

and my ears folded

deep inside, on

hearing that

tingled, and flutter

already miles off...

and yet, still, content

in the ample umbrella

of your shadow.

Off the

beaten path.

No street lights,

nature has

embraced you.

Solitude has

been found.

Suddenly,

feeling as if

you’re not alone.

The darkness

becomes palpable.

Shadows embody

subtle movements.

Heart rate increases,

breath quickens.

You begin

walking faster.

Trying not

to panic.

It feels like

something is

following you.

Now what?

Dread sets in,

anxiety starts.

Your eyes

say you’re alone.

Yet your mind

says otherwise.

Footsteps echo

in the growing

silence of the night.

As phantoms dance

in and out

of sight.

Each one becomes

more terrifying

than the last.

The mania

of the mind

begins to manifest

in your vision.

Shaping fantasies,

promoting nightmares.

Your mind is

fatally infected

with the delusion

of paranoia.

Now you begin

to question

your sanity.

It feels like

the entire forest

is watching you.

Are those really

tortured souls

in the trees?