In the charming town of Maplewood, nestled among green hills, stood a quaint bookstore called "Whispers of the Past." Its owner, Mr. Finch, was a warm-hearted man with a talent for storytelling that captivated children every Saturday afternoon.

One bright Saturday, Lily, a shy girl with curly brown hair and oversized glasses, ventured into the store for the first time. She settled on a colorful rug, her heart racing with excitement and nerves. Mr. Finch welcomed the children with a smile, announcing, “Today, we’ll explore the power of questions.”

Lily listened as her classmates raised their hands, asking questions like “What’s the biggest animal in the world?” and “Why is the sky blue?” Each inquiry led to a magical tale, drawing laughter and gasps from the group.

But Lily held back, fearing her questions might sound silly. She wondered why stories could evoke such deep emotions, why they could make people laugh, cry, or feel comforted. As Mr. Finch concluded his stories, he looked around, encouraging the children. “Every question is important. Don’t be afraid to ask.”

Gathering her courage, Lily raised her hand. “Mr. Finch, why do stories make us feel so much?” Her voice trembled, but the room fell silent, eyes turned toward her.

Mr. Finch’s eyes sparkled with delight. “That’s a wonderful question, Lily! Stories touch our hearts because they mirror our experiences and emotions. They connect us to one another, teaching us empathy and understanding. When we engage with a story, we embark on a journey alongside the characters.”

Lily felt warmth spread through her as her classmates nodded, a sense of belonging washing over her. Encouraged by Mr. Finch’s response, she decided to embrace her curiosity.

From that day forward, Lily became more confident in asking questions, eager to explore the world around her. Each Saturday, she returned to the bookstore, knowing that every question would lead her to new adventures and discoveries.

As the sun set over Maplewood, casting a golden glow on the town, Lily walked home, her heart brimming with the magic of stories and the endless possibilities that come from simply asking a question.

This Time

October 18, 2024

The part called for patience. I rehearsed with at least a dozen men. According to the director, none of them were right for the role. According to the director, I was.

The scene in question occurs at a formal inauguration. The Czech Ambassador invited his friends and they (in turn) could invite a friend. The purpose was to celebrate his promotion to ambassador and to satisfy his curiosity about the taste of those in close proximity.

I was to stand near the bar. He was to move close, make eye contact, and sweep me off my feet. I needed to be smitten. I needed to be taken willingly. Just a simple touch and my dress straps would succumb. I was to offer no resistance. At best, I could hold my breath and bite my lip.

The script called for me only to react.

The camera moved in close.

My chest heaved. I gave him access to my neck. I was ready. I was willing. I was able.

Then, nothing.

Time and time again, nothing happened. The batter came up to the plate. The pitch was delivered. Then, the strikeout was recorded.

I was beginning to get worried.

So,

I suggested a change. I suggested that the last gent switch places with me. I wanted to keep the camera rolling. I took the alpha lead and made my move on him.

I walked over to him, catching him by surprise. I demanded the camera remained focused on his face while my hands improvised elsewhere. The viewer watched my prey emit a surprised yelp as he jumped from the contact. The crew knew I pinched his rear and poked him with a nearby fork. The potential audience would wonder otherwise.

The director signaled for the camera to keep rolling.

I pushed him away and then pulled him back. He yelled in pain as I grabbed him by his perfect hair (for the audience) and stepped on his instep with my stiletto heels (for the crew).

On camera, I turned my leading man into a wussy. All it took was a slap across his face, his chance to react in horror, and a sidestep to use him as a shield against the obviously armed intruder interjected for a poor plot twist to save the production.

To finish the shot, I took his bourbon, took a sip, and took him for the chump who needed to wear the last few drops.

The crew applauded the change. The director didn’t. He helped the ego bruised leading man to his feet and told him to go freshen up.

The man left the room silent.

When the door closed, all eyes were on the director. Then on me. Then back to the director.

“It’s a wrap. Make the change to the script. I’ll cut him a check and give him a letter of recommendation. You (pointing to me), by tomorrow morning, learn a few phrases in Czech and how to throw a knife.”

I adjusted my dress straps back to their proper position. The set had a mirror and I checked my appearance. This time, the crew saw a woman wearing little, showing much. The audience (soon) would see the same woman in the same dress kicking ass and taking names.

This time.

Tonight, the sky is heavy with light,

a copper globe rising over the trees,

its edges softened by the chill.

Silent as the woods wait below,

and in the distance, shadows stretch,

elongated whispers of the day.

The moon calls to those who listen,

its pale voice echoing through the branches,

reminding us of what is hunted,

and what is lost.

The earth holds its breath.

Leaves rustle in the wind's slow sigh,

a heartbeat shared between the stars

and the creatures that walk beneath.

The night is not still—

it pulses, it watches, it remembers.

A reminder,

of seasons turning and the wild within us

that never sleeps.

What May Come

October 15, 2024

We meet here every Tuesday

Our rendezvous in the open

The coffee is delicious

Even more so when ordered as cafe

She has that grin

The one where she knows something

Something I don’t

But will, soon

It is a contest

Of whether I can guess

Or if she can hold back

The odds makers are with me

So I take another sip

She bites her lips

She knows I find that extremely sexy

She is wearing me down

The almond biscotti is very good here

I find myself mumbling

She wants me to guess

I want her to stop kicking me

I mention the weather

I wonder if her mother is coming to visit

Perhaps she has the winning lottery ticket

Her grin widens

One more sip before she bursts

Apparently, we will need a larger table

Pregnant women take up so much space

And twins need their room too

Just eight years old. He grit his teeth, held his arm as if it could protect against the cold.

"Help me."

"Help me."

"Just some food."

"Please!" He was growing a bit angry, speaking through almost closed lips.

So many hands that would reach out, so many kind eyes before--

This time it was a girl no older than fifteen, in a school uniform with the most clear blue eyes.

And as if caught in a flash they widened.

Her hand retracted, muttering about an adult doing the deed.

Shouldn't be involved.

He stumbled to sit back.

Alone. And cold.

The rain poured down in torrents, drumming against the windows as if trying to break through, while inside, I sat motionless, staring at the flickering candle that seemed to hold the last shred of warmth in the cold, silent room. Every drop felt like a heartbeat, a reminder that the world outside was still alive, even if everything inside felt like it had stopped.

Andrey woke up with the feeling that this day would be special. Although nothing seemed to foreshadow any changes, there was something mysterious in the air. His usual route to work was suddenly interrupted—he noticed an unfamiliar pavilion with a bright sign: "Journey Through Parallel Universes." Curiosity took over, and Andrey stepped inside.

Inside stood an old television surrounded by a tangle of wires. Nearby sat an elderly man with a thoughtful face, deeply engrossed in a book. Upon seeing Andrey, the man set the tome aside and smiled gently.

"I see you're seeking answers," he said, as if reading his thoughts. "Are you ready to see who you could have become?"

Andrey wasn’t sure, but he nodded. The man pointed to a chair in front of the screen and offered him a seat. Once Andrey settled in, the old man placed a light helmet on his head.

"What is this?" Andrey asked, feeling the strange device.

"This will allow you to see your lives in parallel universes," the man explained. "Every choice you’ve ever made opened a different path. Now you'll see where each one leads."

The screen lit up, and Andrey saw himself... but not in his apartment. On the screen, he was in New York, surrounded by skyscrapers. In this life, he was a successful architect, bringing massive projects to life. He seemed happy, but something in his eyes hinted at an endless race for success that was wearing him down.

In an instant, the screen changed. Now Andrey saw himself as a philosophy professor in a university lecture hall. His eyes sparkled with passion for his subject, inspiring his students. However, in this version of his life, he was alone, having dedicated himself to knowledge at the expense of relationships and family.

The screen continued showing other worlds. In one, he traveled the globe as a photographer, capturing the beauty of wild nature. In another, he was a scientist, studying the mysteries of the universe. In yet another, he lived in a small village, enjoying a quiet life far from the hustle and bustle.

Some versions of his life were tough: one showed him losing everything, overwhelmed by difficulties. In another, he stood on stage, surrounded by applause, as a famous musician.

Each frame was a new possibility, a new "me." Andrey watched as his fate split into thousands of variants, based on the smallest of decisions: whether he went to a different university, accepted a different job offer, or chose a different love...

When the demonstration ended, the man turned off the screen and removed the helmet from Andrey's head.

"And what do you think?" he asked.

Andrey slowly breathed out, realizing how many different paths had been open to him. Every choice had shaped a new life, and each of those lives was unique. But he suddenly understood one thing.

"They're all different, but they're all me," Andrey answered. "Any path could lead to happiness or hardships. What matters isn’t the choice I make but how I approach my decisions."

The old man nodded in approval, as if expecting this answer.

"Exactly. Choices create worlds, but your inner strength creates meaning in each of them."

Andrey stepped outside, feeling his mind expand. He now knew: every moment of his life was a gateway to a new journey. And no matter what choice he made tomorrow, the most important thing was how he chose to live today.

Stop and Wonder (part deux)

October 03, 2024

Stop and wonder

How could your life have changed

If you met me

Before you met her?

Might you have made clearer choices?

Might you be making other choices?

Perhaps about a home?

Perhaps about a family?

Stop and wonder

Did you get what you wanted?

Or are you still searching?

Never accepting the bounty before you

If you seek only looks

I will age with time

But, so will you

Perhaps, I will begin seeking another also

But, what if

What you seek has yet to manifest?

An existence stemming

From the time you invest, beginning today

Will you reap what ye sow?

Will you grow as well?

It becomes easier for me to leave behind

Indifference and vacillation with each passing day

So, once more, stop and wonder

For you are not the only person

Asking such questions of themselves

Asking such questions of me

when the Universe

declines

in kid gloves

stretching the skin

sacrificial

I think of Dana

and losing touch

the herd

thinned

the babies

dispersed

the land

so close

to being sold

a dance beat

Native

in space

else

where

it could be

man or woman

...who will judge

the stepping out

of Time

beside

a small town

ShopRite

jaws of register

a spoke poet

sound

hands molding

clay like candy

wordlessly

handling

the Flood

pas comme il semble

Tis the journey through the night

Where once those mentally sound

Are now paralyzed with fright

Those with singular arrhythmia

Now encounter its malignant twin

As desires of rescue fade

Let the hopes of providence begin

Janis arrived conscripted to liquidate a debt

Constrained by chains in a vat

Voluntarily to aid and abet

Covered with sugar and aerated wort

These microbes never relented

The reaction began in earnest

As her epidermis rapidly fermented

Jacob decided to tempt his fate

As did Roger, his nemesis,

Who loathed the wait

Inside their respected decompression chambers

With only the ability to release their mate

Both departed explosively

Still coveting their respective hate

Malcom consumed all he could view

Be it five or seven courses

He was never through

Bragging he could eat horses

Oblivious to zombies with an appetency

To their version Cordon Bleu

Malcom became a culinary Waterloo

Conjoined twins arrived

Destined to survive the apparitions

“Two heads are better than one”

Was their ammunition

But slayers on sight still shoot on sight

As Left Twix bled out

Right Twix remarked “Good Night”

When horror is unleashed and befalls unseen

Welcome to the real version of Halloween