The night I fear most; the night of the new moon; the one night that renders me powerless in the face of others. My secrets I hide on the one night in the month, I change into something fragile. All my senses have changed. I can not feel, hear, smell, or taste as I do on moon light nights. One night in particular stands out, the quiet night my boyfriend found out about my secret. I was sitting there in my room, meditating, as I always did that night. I must have zoned out because he walked in to my room. He gasped as my hair had changed, as if I had dyed it a different color than normal, he had never seen this night, and its effects on me. He backed up towards the door, a panicked aura surrounding him. I turned my head over in his direction, and even with my blindness, I could feel the tension in the air. “Please, I am sorry I never told you about this time of month.” I stated. Hoping my words would convey into the quiet of the night, for he didn't say a word to me. “I keep it secret, due to the danger that could arise with this knowledge.” I said, not wanting to upset him anymore. I hear him shuffle in the background. Furthermore, I feel the burning sensation in the back of my eyes, as tears well up and fall down my face. “ I’m sorry, please stay. I can't be alone right now.” I told him, hoping that would bring him closer to me. Furthermore, I soon heard footsteps behind me and felt him snake his arms around me, pulling it towards him. The stress I feel comes alive as I cry harder. The best thing about the whole situation is that I shared something on this quiet New Moon Night, and my boyfriend learned more about me.

Roy, what happened?

We have been investigating a series of bombings in the Capital. We had gone to the abandoned warehouse, went inside as Major Hacket pushed me out towards the door and a bomb went off. We were both caught in the blast.

That is horrible, but how did you get only a burned arm?

Major Hacket took the brunt of the blast, she is in surgery right now.

Dang!

They are saying I can leave here in an hour, want to go get some lunch?

Sure, I have some more pictures of my little Alicia.

I thought we could talk work, I want to figure out who did this so that we can take them down and make them pay for hurting innocent and military persons.

I guess we can do that. What are you wanting to eat?

There is a small Chinese place just two blocks from here.

That sounds good.

Don't talk to me in your normal voice, not on a night like this. Whisper low. Make the crickets the obvious winners in a loud sound match. Be so quiet, that I mistake it for silence. I want to have an excuse to lean in and break the boundaries of your personal space. Please, let me make it our space. Because, when I catch your words, I'm sure they are going to have me seeing stars and the only thing that will guide me back to Earth is your crescent moon grin. So talk low and slow. Pull me into your gravity.

"what now?"

"Why are you asking me that?"

"I just thought-"

"You thought what?! Oh. this girl that was arranged to be married to me and barely got to get off of the carriage before being abandoned in this seemingly war-torn country would know what to do when faced with famine, destruction, sickness, and disaster?!"

"no..."

"then what!?"

"I saw you die. Then I was killed after you. Maybe your eyes were closed, or the curtain obstructed your view but we're not on Earth anymore. You got here first, and I am highly confused. So again I ask, what now?"

"..."

I incline my head,

the breeze tickling my throat.

My fingers dance across the park bench,

catching on brambles in the wood.

I listen to the whisper and whine,

The screams and shouts of the City.

There are people dancing and singing.

The moon kissing their shoulders,

shining it’s gratitude.

The buildings twinkle in the night,

as if in response.

A dog barks across the street,

his tail wags and twirls beneath his feet.

I close my eyes,

the sounds washing over me as a wave.

The City is nothing but loud and boisterous,

but to me the sound calms.

The quiet of the City is nothing at all.

Rather the quiet of the City is a symphony,

a symphony of lives coming together,

each a different key.

"Are you telling me that we're done?"

"That is what I'm telling you. I'm surprised it took you this long to figure that out."

"I just can't believe that you could leave me here like this, after all we've been through."

"What have we been through that's worth this? Sam, honestly! I've hated you since the day we met."

"How could you say that? I know that there's no way you could mean such a thing. If such a thing were true, I would hate you. Hate you more than this life itself!"

"I really don't know what you have to do with hating this wonderful life you've been given, or hating me for not loving you. But I know that in time you'll understand why I'm saying the things I am. You'll be saying the same things to someone new in a few years time. It's not hard. Just think."

"Stop speaking in riddles! You know we're meant to be together. Do you think I would have done such terrible things if you weren't at my side guiding me?!"

"If they were so terrible, I was never worth smudging your ego."

"My ego? My ego?! Will you never understand the simple basic morals of the average person and the reason for them being so coveted?!"

"Ah, yes, morals. Sure. You could go from that angle. But no, anyone who puts stock in such fallacies really just has an ego problem. Like you."

"So you don't care? You don't care that you've done this to me, and that you're leaving now?"

"I never did anything to you. You chose to help me. It's not like I put a gun to your head and told you to dig. You just caught me at an unfortunate moment."

"What is one to do when they find their lover to be a killer? They turn them in or they pick up a shovel! There's no in-between darling, and I chose this one because I love you!"

"Love is also for those with a big-headed temperament."

"How could you say such a thing?"

"Why would one need love if he could provide all the love he needed, himself alone?"

"You're sick."

"Maybe, but I'm fine with that.

You're still wrestling with the blood on your hands."

"Well, I'm not going to be for much longer. Unless you stay here. With me until the day we die."

"Oh, Sam. Just as flighty and air-headed as usual."

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing. Why does it look like I'm doing something?"

"There. They always say that women are just not worth it. And I believe they're right. Not worth it. Not at all."

No one knows where we are. We’re miserably lost.

Amidst the darkness, my mom spots a pinprick of light up ahead.

Driving along the country road, falling snow envelops us like a cocoon, it floats like sprinkled stardust in the milky luminosity of our headlights.

“Up there,” cries my mom, “it looks like a little cottage. Don’t you agree, Isabella?”

“Yeah,” I mumble, noticing that she doesn’t ask my dad his opinion. In fact, she’s barely spoken to him during our trip. Or attempted trip, I never thought we’d get lost on the way to New Hampshire in the middle of December to visit my grandma. Lost on the way to granny’s house? Isn’t that straight out of some gory fairytale? And now a cottage to boot? What the hell?

But here it sits, under the quiet of the night sky, in front of our car, beckoning it seems, and curiosity prances through our minds.

The epitome of an English cottage, it sports a cherry-red door, fairy lights under the soffits, and creeping ivy winding along the stone facade. The light dusting of snow sparkling on the roof gives the illusion of sugar-frosting on a cake. Seriously?

As we approach on foot however, suddenly, the mood changes. I glimpse shadowy figures, half-lit by a pale moon, lurking in corners of the porch, and shudder as a chill traces my spine. The flapping of ravens’ wings startles me. Birds of oily black are perched atop two narrow, but lofty signs made of granite with ‘The Museum of Discarded Children’s Souls’ etched into them. They stand on either side of the door like knights in armor in front of a medieval castle. It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever come across in all my seventeen years.

My dad says, “Let’s knock and ask for directions to Concord.”

The door is opened by a lady wearing an apron tied around her waist smeared with fudge, nutmeg, and cinnamon, scents so inviting I crave tasting them.

“Welcome,” she says, “I’ve just taken the gingerbread cookie cups and fudge caramel brownies out of the oven, come in.”

Amidst the yummy baking smells, I detect something else in the air… a cloying waft of roses. It’s not an entirely unpleasant aroma, but it does strike me as being out of place somehow.

Once inside, although I’m grateful for the warmth, I suddenly freeze. I can’t believe the sight before my eyes. The things I see hanging suspended from the ceiling.

Hundreds of massive multicolored dollhouses and hollowed out spaceships, the size of a smart car, dangle from thick chains. Various items are showcased in them like trophies in a glass cabinet.

I drift from one dollhouse to the next, one rocket ship to another, looking at the pieces lodged within their shells, studying them like my life depends on knowing why they’re there.

“In this house,” the lady narrates, “we have one of our more evocative pieces, these little yellow rubber boots and rain jacket belonged to Jenna Wade, just five years old when her daddy left. See this here, next to the rainy-day things Jenna loved? It’s a brick of cocaine. Her dad liked to party more than he loved her, you see?”

I don’t really see, so I try shaking my head but something’s not right with my body. I suddenly feel… somehow disconnected… detached… a puppet being manipulated by someone pulling my invisible strings.

“Over here,” the lady continues, and I follow her, my feet floating on air like a ghostly being, “we have a football and helmet that belonged to Jonathan Wilson who was only eleven when he lost his father to these types of abominations.” She points to a giant photo of a sleazy woman holding a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Whiskey. She looks like a prostitute.

“Jonathan prayed that his dad would come to his football games to see him score a touchdown. He wanted his dad to be proud of him, but it was not to be. Jonathan’s mom donated these to us just a year after he was incarcerated. Poor kid hit rock bottom after struggling with depression. He yearned for his father so much. They all do, you know?”

We trail behind her like those kids in their trance-induced state, filing behind the Pied Piper, to other exhibits.

A slab of sidewalk nestled in the living room of a blue and purple dollhouse, displays a medley of colorful chalk drawings, rainbows of hues, assortments of shapes. Next to the concrete is a picture of a ranch with a mansion, horse stables, tennis courts and an Olympic-sized swimming pool.

“This was donated by thirteen-year-old Courtney’s dad whose wife, and mother of his only daughter, left them for a rich sugar daddy. Courtney loved art. But she began using drugs shortly after her mom ditched her, started sneaking out, drinking, and her

dad felt helpless. It was tragic. She’s in rehab but, alas, not doing well.”

I start to cry.

I’ve heard the venomous hiss of the word divorce whispered from my parents’ lips.

But despite the hurt stinging my heart and soul, like lemon juice on cuts, the tears I’ve shed are more from embarrassment and jealousy. I’m envious of anyone whose parents are together, and I don’t even care how selfish that sounds.

Carsten and I truly love each other. And though we’re both young, high school sweethearts can end up happily married. They can have the proverbial white picket fence. Carsten’s parents are proof, they’re committed to stay together until death do them part. I want that too. Both sets of parents at our wedding and celebrating the births of our children. I don’t want to spend one Christmas at my mom’s and another at my dad’s. And have my kids call some stranger Grandpa Bob or Grandma Shirley– whatever dumbass my mom decides to fall for, or witch my dad replaces my mom with. If they split, I’ll die missing them both. And to hell with everyone else’s bullshit-take on how blended families can work wonderfully. There’s no Brady Bunch in this cruel world.

My sobs echo, like voices inside a rocky canyon, throughout the museum.

“Come, Isabella, dry your eyes. Let’s have your father look at this particular display,” the lady commands.

Within the biggest dollhouse yet, I spot a pair of pink ballet slippers, a bit worn but still exquisite. Then I gasp. They are mine. I can tell by the ink stain where I once dropped my calligraphy pen when I was hurriedly packing up my school things after dance class.

“What on earth…?” My mom’s voice comes out strangled.

Next to the shoes, there’s a picture of Lorraine. It’s her, I’d recognize that face anywhere.

“This young lady didn’t survive her dad’s abandonment, she was destroyed by the selfish way he discarded her for another family. Poor devastated Isabella died by her own hand. All because of this…” the lady sneers, tapping her fingernail on the photo of Lorraine, “…homewrecker.”

In a sudden moment of rage, she reaches into the dollhouse, grabs the polaroid, and rips it into tiny pieces.

She screams “But he didn’t say no to being seduced by her mom’s best friend. Did he?

No. Instead, he shattered a family for horrid, backstabbing, phony Lorraine. And now beautiful, young Isabella lies buried in the cemetery overlooking the valley.”

Raking her nails down her face, drawing blood, she shrieks “Her mom, weeping rivers of tears each and every day, brings pink roses to her grave. I can smell those roses now, can’t you?”

“The thing attacked me!”

”What thing?”

”A monster!!!!”

“What now?”

”Yeahhhhhhh”

”Is that why you have bruises everywhere?”

”mhm”

It's too quiet in the suburbs

The deathly kind

That makes me feel

myself rotting away

I miss the sirens

And the throbbing pulse

of the nightclub on the corner

The drunken laughter

And humming electricity

I stand in the street

of my childhood neighborhood

No traffic, no people, no life

I see the moon so clearly

And such stars

I am reminded that it's night

That it's dark.

That time is moving away from me.

The city is immortal

Awake and alive forever.

It is a part of me

Now ripped away

And I count the days

'Til I am made whole again.

Translucence of eyes

speaks to my soul,

a poem of light

curves of my need,

quiet grace

coy smiles and glances,

simmering lips

dew kissed morn.

Echoes

of butterscotch moon

I see you

dazzling star night.

Your flame kindles

my burning desire

intrigue arousing

strength of my loins.

Perfume engraved

permeating my mind,

gleaming ebony hair

your sensual disguise.

Drawn to your words,

hearing paradise,

needing to devour

splinters of time.

Soft caresses

lost in longing,

engraved in the heart

of deep shallow wells.

Quenching my thirst

pools of emotion,

cradled in enveloping peace,

overcome with shivers

when I hear your name.