In the summer of 2012, I watched him enter the cabin, navigating the small, intimate space ungracefully like a bull in a china shop, carrying haphazardly a six pack of beer and some bratwursts from the local supermarket in town. Desmond resembled a bear, covered in thick body hair, earning the moniker, “Jear-Bear” or “Bear-Bear.” Though, truthfully he was not much like a bear at all. Bears to me are loaners, right-wing nut jobs, living in seclusion to cultivate a safe interior world within the greater, unstable one that advanced without paying heed to their objections and idiosyncrasies. Jared—that is, Desmond’s given name—allayed any suspicion of malevolence with his wild, joyful presence, warm and inviting like a cozy fireplace on a cold winter night. His frame was massive, though not barrel chested, not quite obese, but robust and full figured, towering over most of his contemporaries, a bespectacled giant. Calm hands unpacked the food, steady and methodical. Inside the fridge, an array of scattered, half eaten food lie fallow and disorganized, though a particular order governed the contents, assuming categories associated by meal and time of day. One bed in the cabin, dressed with one ratty comforter and scattered clothing suggested there had been no one else living there prior to my arrival, save him and the occasional weekend guest. Below us, accessible by a roughhewn step ladder through a trapdoor a hobby room contained a small desk, a pool table, and a reasonable bookshelf. Well-worn spines, outward facing, arranged in order topically, then alphabetically spanned the shelves, some paying respects to classical poets and others to modern film writing. Yellowed pages stained with water spilled over the boundaries of the desk, filled with scant etchings of plots and characters from his myriad projects in process. A beaten, ragged chair, assaulted by hours of supporting Desmond’s genius was neatly pushed into the desk’s interior, an ingrained habit instilled from oversea boarding schools across the South Pacific. A daily itinerary, taped to the wall with blue painters tape, was filled out with a disciplined schedule. Letters from home, opened at the top, earmarked for future perusal were stuffed under the papers, should the time allow for such things. A second bathroom, covertly added on by his father, adjacent to the hobby room was full of board games of varying degrees of complexity, designed by complacent grunge era computer scientists to be played when the weather prohibited venturing out into the world. Hand painted miniatures shared the space, like sentries guarding a vault of precious belongings. In previous months I had added to the collection of warriors, goblins, spacefaring marines and makeshift terrain, contrasted from reclaimed refuse and dollhouses. My gaze was fixed to a single ogre, a green faced abomination burdened with appropriated bits of plastic representations of military equipment fastened to its body with hobby glue, unlike the others, lean and bent over with scatterings of acrylic blood on their dry brushed lips. Upstairs Desmond called me with his lumbering steps, and my focus was unmoored. As tradition dictated, we both were due for a hike to Strawberry Peak, and the sun was soon to set.

(voice recording: https://goo.gl/5BxUKO)

**duplicate post, since some folks couldn't see it in the Spoken Word portal**

a sonnet corona in iambic pentameter

My child, look around. This is your time.

Your journey to adulthood has begun

but not alone - I’ll help you walk that line.

In my poor darkened world, you are the sun.

Slow down a bit and look for warning signs.

Sometimes in life you’ll need to walk not run,

but never stop. Keep moving all the time

and never hesitate to have some fun.

I’ve tried, as you have grown, to teach you things

and always be a member of your team;

Believe in flight, then boldly spread your wings.

Your childhood’s gone by faster than it seems,

but when they’re cut, love, know I’ll keep the strings.

Have faith, sweet girl, and go after your dreams.

***

Have faith, sweet girl, and go after your dreams.

Sometimes the best defense is to attack,

and oft times you’ll be paddling hard upstream.

When that’s the case, let nothing hold you back.

That love’s a mystery is well known fact.

Remember human hearts are not machines,

And broken hearts are actually still intact

So never let anyone steal your gleam.

Try not to let regret invade your soul -

A bigger waste of time you’ll never know.

If life throws you a curve, just tuck and roll.

You’ll have my love no matter where you go,

So don’t be scared to chase what’s in your soul,

If your muse calls to you, you must follow.

***

If your muse calls to you, you must follow.

There is no greater joy than letting art,

In one form or another through you flow;

It opens hidden places in your heart.

Your money is a tool, and not the prize,

So never sell your soul for wealth my love.

Remember words can cut someone to size

And send a daily prayer to God above.

Your character, in honesty shines through.

Please never be afraid to speak your mind

But know that sometimes silence is the truth.

One day, quite soon, you’ll look around and find

That time has flown right by you in your youth

My child, look around. This is your time.

(I love you Jazzmyn, Dad)

(c) 2017 - dustygrein

Alone again.

I sometimes wonder why I even bother. No matter how nice I am, they still push me away.

All I’ve ever wanted was to be loved and accepted. I know I’m different, and that many others hate me for that difference, but it isn’t my fault. I was born this way. I remember how the Sister explained it to me when I was little.

My father was a human, but my mother was a nymph. She had explained that such a union wasn’t normally possible, but every now and then a nymph would become pregnant after a dalliance with a human man; the end result was always the same. The man would never even know, and the nymph would die during childbirth. Most of the children born this way, didn’t survive.

I was special.

I didn’t feel special, just alone.

The other children at the Home teased me about my body. I was born fully endowed, with the appearance and figure of a nymph. As I grew, I went from a little girl trapped in a miniature woman’s body, to a young girl, trapped in a midget-sized body, and now at last I had grown into the size of a normal young woman, even though I was only fourteen.

I often wish that I had been born with vocal chords. Since all I can do is grunt, or write out what I want to say, I know that the other kids will continue to tease me.

I will probably be alone forever.

(c) 2016 - dustygrein

I have yet to kill someone.

Is it time yet?

Maybe it is.

Who cares, it's just another head for my collection.

I'll just use a knife, or no, maybe just a screwdriver?

Black. Dirty. Everything around me is black and I feel dirty. The walls are made of mud. Caked around me and then sealed. When the lights go out I can’t tell if it’s darker when I close my eyes or not. I live underground like an ant. Our city is built out into a colony spanning east to west. Which way is east again? I can’t tell. My parents chose to die and my brother is a worker. He mines for Ora. More Ora means more food. The mineral is put into a chute and transported to the surface. A place we never set foot. That’s where the light burns our eyes that love the darkness. Above us, there is a dome that covers the entire city. That’s where the happy people live. And this? This is where the dead people live.

•••

“Hey, Leora, how’s the produce this month?” I heard a familiar voice as I was poking around my garden. Who is that? Ciaran? There is never enough food for my brother and I. Even though he works more than he sleeps. So I plant things. Happy little vegetables that grow without sun.

“How did this get down here?” I grumbled, “a weed? Really?” A quick glance up and I saw it was Eadin - an old friend of mine, “the garden’s fine. The same as last month, and every month.”

Eadin crouched down to his knees, “need any help?”

He was dirty from mining all day. Who knows the last time he washed? Yet somehow he smelled good. Inviting and warm, but also manly. Like someone I wanted to hold. I smiled at his attempt to help. He already looked exhausted from the day’s work. “No, I think I’m alright.”

I picked up a muddy vegetable and offered it to him. He resisted with a shrug, “you need it more.”

We grew up together. We would play with worms and run down the halls of the colony. When he was big enough to work in the mines, I cried my eyes swollen for weeks. We would no longer play together. It had been years since we talked. A friendly smile or nod on our way to work was all we had. When he was a kid his hair was golden blonde. Like what I would imagine the sun looks like. Now it was dark. Is that dirt? I can’t tell.

“Are you going to the Oblation this year?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t even want to think about it. The Oblation was a day of death. People from the underground gathered to the main room. Packed in like filthy rats. From the chute a container clinking with tiny capsules would ascend from the heavens. It was the gift of dying. Every year the Surfacers gave the Underlyers a chance to go from rags to riches. Drink the serum. If you die, you die. If you live, you ascend. The catch? Almost everyone who drank it died. The last person to drink it and live was my grandfather. He was brought to the surface and we never saw him again. For his act of honor he was allowed to send food back. Any family who had someone on the surface lived like royalty. Royalty in a dirt-walled palace of despair.

“Do you think your brother will do it?” His words stung, like the mean millipedes that liked to creep through my garden.

Ciaran. My brother. With every swing of his pickaxe, his heart deteriorated more. His lungs were filled with dirt. Sometimes I could hear the sand rattle when he breathed at night. Or maybe that was my imagination? People underground die faster than they regenerate. Their bodies hang in the corridors until the Surfacers haul them up to be burned. My grandfather stopped sending us supplies a few years ago. We figured he had passed from old age. If my grandfather survived the serum, maybe my brother would too?

I felt angry. Angry at this miserable life underground. Angry at Eadin for bringing up Ciaran. That’s not his place to ask! Who does he think he is?

“Go away,” I muttered.

“I was thinking of doing it,” he continued, “either way I’d end up somewhere better, right?”

In my frustration I began to shear my plants faster, “did you not hear me?”

He seemed hurt, “no, I just-“

“Damn it!” One of my more promising stalks fell in halves to the ground.

My heart was pounding harder than the worker’s pickaxes attacked the earth, “leave me alone.”

“Listen, Leora, I’m sorry” Eadin stuttered, “I thought we could talk more.” He paused, contemplating whether to press on, “I’ve always liked you…”

I turned my back to him, “see you at the Oblation.”

•••

“’Til death do we live!”

My eyes opened as I heard the chants along the corridor. Every person underground grabbed something to bang against the wall. Anything in arm’s reach. Pickaxes, shovels, pots, pans. The entire underground was shaking. Today was the Oblation. Everyone on the surface to the core of the planet would know.

Outside of our home Ciaran and I began shuffling to the main room. We were the only calm in a sea of frenzied excitement. How can they be so excited to die? To watch others die? They would watch and cheer on their favorite contestant. With what money they had, bets were made. People down here looked forward to it. A day off from work. A holiday. A community event. It was mandatory to watch, but I would always shut my eyes.

The main room was a monstrous hollowed dome. There were more levels than you could see down. If you fell from the railing, you would surely die. Something I’ve witnessed more times than I would have liked. Everyone crowded together to see the monitors and the chute. Those who were interested in taking part of the Oblation were serenaded to the center. The level we lived on gave us a front row view. We were so close we could smell the serum. We could also smell the death.

With a hum the monitors reluctantly flickered on. They played the same upbeat commercial every year.

I only caught glimpses. I was too distracted thinking about my brother. Could he really drink it this year?

“Join us on the surface,” exclaimed a pompous wealthy woman with jewels suffocating her neck, “it’s paradise!”

Scenes of free-flowing water and people basking in the sun lit up the screen. Everyone was happy. Laughing. Families spent time together. They actually have free time? No one was dirty or tired. Videos of lavish living quarters never failed to make the audience ooh and ahh. They showed us heaven while we were living in hell. No wonder people would die to get there.

A woman appeared on the screen, “Hello, hello! I’m glad to see each and every one of you!”

This woman looked like sunshine. Everything about her was bright. Her perfectly straight teeth were blindingly white. The sun had lovingly kissed her glowing bronze skin. Golden locks like beams of light framed her smiling face. She burned my eyes but I couldn’t help but stare.

“You all know the rules.” She paused, “you must drink an entire bottle of extract and survive to claim your reward. No cheating!”

Rules. Rewards. Cheating. This is just a game.

“Now, let’s get started, shall we?” She chirped.

•••

The chute began to tremble. A faint whirring sound filled the air. It was time. All of us watched as the capsule was lowered down to the main level. A few volunteers from the surface stood by. Wrapped in contamination suits, they were the ones that would make sure you drank all of the contents. They also would get rid of all the bodies.

One of the volunteers took the box from the chute and placed it on a table. He removed the top to unveil the small crystal vials. They tinkled against each other. A sound so innocent for what was about to unfold.

A dozen people began to line up. Men, woman, and a few children. If it weren’t for their sizes the grimy, dirty creatures would look identical. The crystal blue concoction called people to drink it. Drink me! I’m the way out, the way up. We watched as people lifted the vials to their lips. Drink me! I can help you.

“’Til death do we live!” One by one they tilted their heads and let the poison slide down their throats. One by one they dropped like flies. The volunteers dragged their bodies into a pile. They were rubbish dead or alive.

•••

As we all watched the commotion I felt someone next to me begin to move away. It was my brother.

“Ciaran, where are you going?” My voice was pleading him to stay. I guess Eadin had been right all along.

My brother looked at me, stoic and emotionless, “I’m a burden.”

Inside, I felt frantic. How do you convince someone to stay? To not die? “But, you’re not!” Is all I could muster.

“I don’t want to spend my days rotting. Eating food from you while you’re already starving. You have a chance.” His voice cracked, “I don’t.”

I moved to try and block him, “a chance? I don’t want to be alone!”

Eadin pushed me back, “it’s his choice Leora. It’s his choice.” Where did he come from? Was he next to me the whole time?

“No, Ciaran,” my face turned hot, “please don’t leave me here to die alone.”

He began to make his way to the center when I cried out, “I can’t survive without you!” Immediately guilt flooded my heart for saying that. Yes, I loved him, but more importantly I couldn’t survive on my own. I needed him. I depended on him. Women weren’t allowed to work in the mines. Underground vegetables would not last long. I wouldn’t last long either. His death meant my death. Mine would be long, painful and drawn out. His would be quick.

Panicked, I looked around. The line of people wanting to drink the serum was getting shorter. Soon the Oblation would be over. The vials packed up and sent back to the surface. I could try and stop Ciaran by distracting him somehow. No, that wouldn’t work. One look at him reminded me that although sick, he was still much stronger.

A million things ran through my mind. I couldn’t believe it. Is this how my life ends? There were only two choices. I could wither away in the halls of the colony. Alone. Or I could go with my brother and be together. Wherever we end up. Dead or alive. This is the decision I’m left with?

We emerged from the crowds. The chute looming over us. The clamoring crystal vials caught my eye. Drink me! Be with your brother. You’ll be together forever. They were so dazzling up close. The crystal vials caught invisible light. Any little movement refracted beams of light that illuminated in every direction. It set the room aglow. The turquoise concoction glimmered and swirled. The closer I got, the more I was enchanted by their spell. Drink me! One foot in front of the other. I’ll keep you safe. Until I felt myself watched by a thousand eyes.

Ciaran turned to me. We had made it to the table and it was our turn. He picked up a vial and handed it to me. He summoned a meek smile and under his breath muttered, “see you on the other side.”

I felt the words spill from my mouth, “Ciaran, if you live, I live; and if you die, I die.”

He acknowledged my words with a nod and then roared, “’til death do we live!” Then he looked to the heavens, put the drink to his lips and poured.

I looked back at Eadin. I looked forward to Ciaran. Then I did the same.

                                                              Chapter 1

Philippe waited until his daughter left the house. She would not want him to do this. She would want him to stay in bed. He thought, “She is worse than an army general.” He knew that he would have to disobey her orders. It was time.

                                                                      #

     He sat on the edge of the bed, looked out the window and gazed across the fertile land that had for so long been the life, and soul, of the Marchand family. He thought, “This is the land that I, and my father, and my father’s father, tilled. This life is ending, as is my life.” He took a deep breath and began the task that he had been dreading.

     He did not bother to get dressed. He limped to the hall area, reached for the rope, pulled down the access ladder that led up to the attic, and climbed the stairs. He stopped halfway up to catch his breath. He, then, pulled himself to the floor of the attic, rested again, turned on the light and looked around. He spotted the small leather suitcase.

The last time he had opened the suit case was when he replaced the chess set - it seemed like an eternity ago – when Robert was here with Madeleine – it was, in fact, twenty-two years.

   His fading memory became vivid. He recalled the time when he and a surprise visitor, Robert, had enjoyed their time playing chess. He remembered how happy his daughter was. He had hoped that Robert would have returned to be with Madeleine. He had wondered why Madeleine did not inform Robert that he was a father of a beautiful son. But she, for her own good reason, did not do that. Philippe had admonished her - before he went to heaven, (Philippe was a man of deep faith and this was the expression that he used to describe his passing), “When I go to heaven, take your son to meet his father in America.”

     He lifted the lid of the suitcase, took out the chess set, dusted it off and looked for the book. He found it under some papers, retrieved it, dusted it off, crawled back to the attic entrance and turned out the light. He rolled over on his stomach, secured his foot on the top rung of the ladder and slowly climbed down. He released the ladder to return it to a position not quite flush with the ceiling.

     Philippe carried the book and the chess set to the kitchen table. He placed the chess set aside and opened the book. Then he rested his head on his hands. The parchment pages had turned yellow. He read the writing on the first page: Louis Marchand, 1822, Thomas Marchand, 1865, Raymond Marchand, 1905, and finally, his own name, Philippe Marchand, 1950, each written in their own handwriting. He began to read the writing of Louis Marchand.

     His breathing was heavy. He felt a pressure to his chest; he was not worried; he had experienced the chest pain quite often recently. But then the pain grew worse. Fear came over him. He managed to get to the kitchen counter where he found a note pad and a pen. He returned to the table and scribbled two notes. He called out in desperation for his daughter, “Madeleine, Madeleine.” He clutched at his chest and then fell - his arms reached out over the table, his hands covering the book, as if to protect the secrets within. Finally, Philippe Marchand, the peasant farmer, the last male descendant of Louis Marchand, aide to Napoleon, took his last breath.

                                                                    #

     Madeleine returned home from her errand. She started, “Papa, do you…” She did not complete the sentence. Philippe Marchand was slumped over the table. Madeleine walked over to him; ran her fingers through his hair and thought, “He always had nice hair.” She continued, “Papa, do you want coffee?” Tears streamed down her face as she poured two cups of coffee, as she always did, both black as he liked it. She sat at the table, sipped her coffee – and thought, “He’s with Mama now.”

     Thus, with this event - the end of the life of Philippe Marchand, a story that had been waiting impatiently, was allowed to be told.

A bird landed on the sill and cheeped. It was a pretty thing, mostly brown with a few blue and yellow feathers like scales on a fish. Abigail sat very still and peered over, not wanting to startle it, and noticed that the poor bird had a padlock stuck on its head—the metal hook, like a curled finger, wrapped around its neck. The padlock was small and silver and it gave the bird a noble look, but it was obvious the bird was suffering. Perhaps it had come to her for help?

"Don't move," said Abigail, and she ran about the house, finally returning with a coterie of keys. The bird stood patiently while she applied the metals, but none fit. Not the one to mother's jewelry-box, not the one that looked like a skeletal finger, not the golden one for the shelf beneath the peering glass, not the one to father's desk. Finally, Abigail went down into the foyer and with some hesitation pulled the key to the front door from her father's spare coat. It was shaped like an F and it fit into the padlock. Liberated, the bird flew out the window, soaring over bowler hats and stone heads to the park across the road. From a branch it looked back, then was gone.

Any euphoria Abigail might have felt quickly dwindled as she realized she was alone again. She scooped up the keys and returned them to their places. Her excitement returned when she thought about telling mother, but then what if father found out? She could imagine him now: plopped on the dining chair, black rings under his eyes, his traveling cloak unfurled over the furniture and his necktie hanging like a beaten snake. And that voice, hissing: “What if the bird had flown off with the key, tossing our spare to strangers?” Then he’d look to mother: “She gets this from you, you know.”

Abigail kicked the closet door hiding Dolly, and went back to her sill—

—to find the bird had returned. Then it was gone, zipping to a lamp post, before it came back and cheeped. Abigial was well acquainted with fairy tales and this seemed a particularly obvious invitation. But should she follow? The parents would be home in a few hours and Dolly might tell. Besides, Abigail would have preferred deserts and duels, dust devils and dragons, although one cannot be picky about childhood adventures.

Down below, a golem – painted yellow to indicate a schoolteacher – led a retinue of children along the fence. Each child was licking a lump of candy-fire crackling in their hands, getting sugary ash around their mouths. They must have visited the carnival. Abigail sighed. She was forbidden to go into the yard. By extension, she was forbidden the street and the park across it. Unless she did something, this was going to be another day spent in her bedroom.

“Well,” said Abigail, clenching a fist around the padlock. “It was the key to the front door.”

* * *

It’s not that Abigail Rollins did not like watching golems. They were an interesting lot to spy on from the security of a high window. Regular people walked hunched over with cloaks and coats thrown over them. Hiding identities, purposes. They looked like passing shadows. But amidst their turbulent wake were golems, animated boulders carved into the likeness of men, expressionless but alive. They came in all shapes and sizes, some painted, some intricately carved. While man confined himself to dark materials, his creations abounded.

She had her own golem, a doll with real hair. It was also her sitter. While her parents worked, Dolly kept house. But she wasn’t good with children. Whenever Abigail wanted to play cowboys and warlocks, Dolly would hide in the closet. Dolly didn’t like Abigail that much.

Neither did father. He didn’t care for a daughter who wanted to be a cowboy. For now, she needed tutorship and manners and fashionable clothes like those worn by ladies in the Arcade. Father’s intentions were never hidden. Politics crept even into bedtime stories, where brave princesses raised their families' statuses by marrying corpulent princes. Abigail would catch his eye when she was old enough to be used in the Court. She would be involved.

But for now, Abigail enjoyed some independence in the house. Too old for nurseries, too young for university or betrothal, she would sit and ponder passerby, or if she was really bored, the trees in the park across the road. Or she’d read the pennybacks mother would give her. They were westerns with titles like Lightfroth Mountain Trail and A Fistful of Soulgems. Stories about princesses turned into swans bored her—she preferred daring escapes from lynch mobs and prairie children kidnapped by shapeshifting natives. Father considered these novels so beneath him to the point of not considering them, but maybe he should have, for they were influencing her ambitions. Already she'd decided she'd someday be Iron Abbie, exploring the Unmade Plains with a six-shooter named Rusty and a horse named Steve.

Until then, she watched, sitting up whenever she saw someone in leathers or grime-brown wools, or wearing a zandy hat with a pinched front, to wonder if they were visitors from the West. Once she saw a golem in a white duster, carrying four pistols with pearl grips. He rode a horse ponderously, looking back and forth at the houses. Mostly the streets were a swish of dark coats, silk dresses, parasols, and golems with plates as colorful as stained glass. The West only peered into the city. Like her, it did not belong.

But today, she would explore.

Abigail made her fists into guns. “Show yourself!” she called from the stairs. “I know you’re down there, Dangerous Doll McGrew.”

“Abigail, I’m busy,” a voice replied, followed by quick steps and the shutting of a door.

Abigail listened to the silence, then went down into the foyer.

* * *

From her window, there was order to the street currents, but down here the wrapped gentry and carriages whisked and rattled and tromped, delivering a panache of smells – garbage, factory smoke, fungus, mint, and salt. A moment’s hesitation, a lost footing, and she’d be shipped to the docks or clattered against cobblestones.

The bird flew across the road. Abigail wondered – no, reckoned, that was a better word for a cowboy – if it was leading her to the park.

“Out of my way!” she shouted, barreling into the crowd. She slipped ahead of pewter cherubs carrying chalices lined with red stones, and in front of chatting and laughing women, their eyes sliding over her quickly. A driver shouted at her when he had to pull his stone spider to an abrupt halt, the cart almost shattering against spinnerets, and distracted, Abigail smacked into a golem.

“Sorry, Jack!” she said, getting up. The golem glanced up and down the street, then picked her up gently and put her down by the park.

“Thank you, Jack,” she said, but it was gone.

The park fence was comprised of iron-blue bars choked by twisting yellow vines. Trees tall as smokestacks and just as dirty loomed overhead. Not seeing a gate, Abigail slipped through the fence and tread down a footpath. She'd been here many times with mother and wasn't afraid of being lost, but she did not want to lose sight of the bird, even if she had some doubts about whether it was truly summoning her. Perhaps all of this adventure was the fault of her imagination – that faculty her father called a ruinous power.

The trees ended and she entered a field of dead grass. The bird hopped onto a bough nearby and looked about, as if unsure of where to go. Ahead, on a small hill, was a sleeping giant – a plainstone golem sitting against a blue boulder.

"Is this where you meant to bring me?" asked Abigail. The bird looked at her. She was sure that if birds could shrug, this one's wings would pop off. "Well, I'm investigating anyway."

Iron Abbie approached the golem, finger pistols drawn. The golem had its head down as if it were sleeping, a bright yellow star painted on its chest. Nearby, a sack’s stomach had exploded, spilling a collection of empty liquor bottles.

A light flickered in the golem’s eye for a moment, before going out.

“Hands to the sky!” Abbie shouted when she was near enough. The golem sat up, sputtering.

“Huh? What?”

“What were you doing?” said Abbie, sticking Rusty right into its painted chest.

“Taking a nap,” said the golem. Its two eyes, lit like candles, pointed directly toward her. The golem slowly put its hands up in mock surrender.

“But golems can’t sleep.”

“Well, I didn’t know that.”

Abbie put Rusty down. “Seriously, what’s your deal, Jack?”

“The name’s not Jack.”

“But every golem’s name is Jack. There's cityjacks, housejacks, warjacks... Or are you a doll?"

“The name’s Loon,” it said.

“That’s a stupid name,” Abigail thought aloud.

“I agree,” said the golem. “It’s loony.”

“Oh, you’re like a person!" said Abigail. She was liking the personality of this one far more than her timid housekeeper or the faceless guards that protected father. It was clever, and funny, like how she imagined an older brother would be. "Can I keep you?”

The golem rubbed the back of its neck, suddenly uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t make a very good pet,” he said delicately.

“Why not?” asked Abigail.

“I’m not house trained.”

Abigail laughed again. "You are well-named, Jack." Then she had had an idea. “Play oracles and outlaws with me! Or summoners and scoundrels.”

“Gunslingers and goblins?” suggested the golem.

“I dub thee Deputy Starchest,” said Abbie. “I’m a Marshall, see? Been hunting a dragon rider who’s been breathing trains from here to Lincoln, New Mexico.”

“Deputy Starchest,” said Loon. “The slowest gun in the west.” He sluggishly held up his hand, fingers pointing like a gun, and after a long, dramatic pause, said, “Pew.”

“Whoa, partner,” said Abbie. “Easy with that pistol."

"Good thing my bullets take an hour to leave their barrel.”

And that’s how they played while the sun rolled gently down the sky. Just as it was blurring into pinks and oranges, a woman stood on top of the boulder – a woman with fizzy brown hair like a bottle opened too quickly, and brown skin, and black eyes, and black rings under those eyes. She had – Abigail noticed excitedly – a blue bandanna and a trim frock coat.

The golem stopped, his hands dropping to his sides. “What is it?”

“What do you think?” said the woman. “I need booze. Something aged in a barrel. My head feels like it’s been punched through by artillery.”

“You ever think a little less alcohol might help with that?”

She gave him a look. “You know why I need it.” She nodded at Abigail and leaped off the rock, disappearing from view.

“Who was that?” asked Abigail excitedly. “Was that a warlock?”

“You should go home,” said the golem. He stared in the direction where his companion had gone, then turned back to Abigail. “You should not come back.”

“Will you be here tomorrow?” asked Abigail.

“Y-yes,” the golem admitted.

“Then I’ll be back.”

“At least do one thing for me.” The golem’s tone was serious, and Abigail quieted down. “Cael and I are not exactly on good terms with the people in this city. Keep us a secret, and you and I can play... for now. But tell anybody, even your parents, and we won’t be around anymore.” The golem’s glowing eyes peered into hers, and she nodded, affecting as mature a face as she could muster.

“I swear by the lonesome gods,” she said. “Your secret is safe.” Abigail didn't feel that was enough, that it sounded too much like the characters they'd been playing, so she added: "I promise."

I

Left

My

Grandmother

At

Home

With

Her

Three

Cats

While

I

Went

On

A

Vacation

And

I

Came

Back

To

See

That

All

That

Was

Left

Of

Her

Were

Her

Dentures

A pair of black heels discarded on the floor 

Scuffed and broken, they've lost the war.

Through a joyful past they've trodden 

Created memories of laughter long forgotten.

Now abandoned and replaced 

Nothing more than a waste of space.

For I am those broken shoes

Lying in the corner of this dimly lit room 

Ready to give up the battle 

An empty shell, bruised and fragile.   

Eyes closed, breathing shallow

Skin stretched tight and sallow.

The oldest breathed water and wouldn't stay in the sea. Sprinting across the crags, he lived puddle to puddle. Why not just stay in the ocean? But I think he was broken.

The second found cadavers that walked and talked and kissed but were dead. Second would give them pieces of his soul so they could glow, but soul isn't sunlight.

Third lived in a cloud fishing for people. When he caught them he would reel them up and eat them. Little stink pieces of heart and blood dripped from the vapor. I would have liked Third, maybe. At least he knew there were worse things than being lonely.

Fourth lived by an ugly statue, a humpty dumpty god. At night he burned his hands in fireplaces, and in the morning he pieced the monument together with Third-World tools. Noon, he would write poetry on its corpse.

When the Fourth died, there were no children to complete his work. But dying isn’t disappearing.

These were my brothers. They speak to me and they make me want to do terrible things.