It’s not the trees nor the space between them

That’s makes a forest a forest

But what lurks between them

Stalking you with golden eyes

Resembling newborn stars in virgin skies

Reminding you of who the trespasser is

What makes a forest is what lives beneath

Roots like veins making the earth a living pumping being

It is in the magic spoken in long forgotten tongues

Restless monsters listening

To the whispers of ancient trees

It’s the feeling of branches scratching your cheek

Your heart pumping in your chest

It is the feeling that you are both home

Yet somehow still in danger

What makes a forest a forest

Is fear when you find yourself

Not so alone in the woods as you thought you were

My best friend Earl, a grade 920 ancillary wizard had just returned from EF (the Enchanted Forest) and was raving about it. The service was excellent, the potions were excurbulent and even the Maximalor security demons were helpful. And really, the Maximalors are generally at best aloof, they are contractors after all, so I questioned whether Earl had maybe sampled some of his own potions, if you know what I mean.

So I had one of my minions fly a basic tran-lobular pattern and enter the main meadow of the EF. At first I thought we had landed in the wrong dimension, even wizards make that mistake sometimes, it’s not like these transmutation spells come with a full user manual, but I digress. We asked one the Maximalors and he said we were in the right place, and then after looking at some sort of cue card said, “Welcome, we’re so glad you are here” in a sour monotone, obviously someone was looking to boost their customer satisfaction ratings.

We got our bearings and took off towards our destination,the plan was to first sample some of the less oblugata potions to see how they worked, then cross the bridge of infinite sorrows to get to the main potion factory, but then it all went wrong. We were met with a hailstorm of cranial warthog creatures, literally thousands of them. We tried to reach the Maximalor security HQ with our enchantment communicator, but they put us on hold. Yikes. So now we had to throw away more than 500 doses of death potion to make it through. And NOW the security demons called us back to ask us what the problem was….and I told them about it, perhaps with a bit more anger than I should have.

Once at the potion factory, I have to admit there was some really good stuff. They had sample stations for all the various potion mixes and even goblins (dressed in snappy uniforms) upon which we could test the potions before buying.

So once we paid the potion fees and taxes, we set out to exit through the meadow when I happened to glance at my bill. I was shocked. As it turned out, they had added both a gratuity (4,000 drekmas!) and it had disclaimer in fine print about how there was no guarantee on any products they sold.

So I approached the same security demon who had welcomed us and asked to speak to his manager. This did NOT go as expected. Instead of taking us to EF customer service, this wise guy fires up a level 47 paralyzing potion fog, and if I hadn’t seen that coming, we would still be there, dead.

So we escaped with our lives and what turned out to be cut-rate potions. I couldn’t get a hold of Earl, I think he was a shil for the EF. He blocked my number thereafter.

I blame it on the blasted Coronavirus; sitting with my wife in a three-room seniors’ apartment in our assisted living apartment, with nary anything to do but watch TV. Judge Judy, The Talk, Doctor Phil – you call that TV? Jesus, I’m so tired of that shit. “How ’bout we watch a movie, Dear?” But, “nooo, I wanna see my shows”, as if she owned them. “If you’d run the recorder for me, I’d tape them, but nooo, you won’t do it.” Another long drawn out nooo, and I get the message. We used to go to the movies, we used to go out to dinner, lunch even; we used to play mahjong and poker in the game room with other people, for Chrissakes, we used to even have company in our small place, or visit others in theirs. None of that shit is doable now. So we sit in front of the tube watching all of that crazy made up shit.

After two months of that abuse, I get an idea and I approach my 79 year old wife with it. I have to be very careful planning this or she’d just say no out-of-hand, and I feel rejection very easily, especially on the subject of sex. So, after I pour her a second Martini one night when she seems to be in a fairly good mood, I broach the subject. “Remember when we used to go to the movies all the time?” She confirms that fact and I notice the nostalgia and longing on her face. She’s smiling. That’s key. “Remember when we went to the Art Theatre and saw Deep Throat?” She looks at me funny, but still with the smile, because she remembers that whole raucous evening. We had gone to see the movie on a lark. We truly did not know what it was all about. It was about that time that theatres could show that stuff, as it was considered ‘art’.

She was thinking what happened when we got out of the show that night. She didn’t have to tell me. I could see it on her face. We were so horned up, we couldn’t even start the car without first having a quickie. Jesus. Right there in the parking lot. And on the way home, we fondled each other while driving. I nearly hit a fucking bridge abutment. Getting home, the ride continued. I didn’t need any blue pills either. As we were practicing the Hollywood roles of the movie, every once in a while she’d come up for air and say, “I can’t believe she ate the whole thing,” imitating the current ad on TV for Burger King, I think. What a night. And I could see she’s remembering it now. Good. Time for the kill. “You know, why don’t I dig out that copy of Deep Throat that I bought and we’ll watch it again?” She looked at me and was reluctant to agree, so I quickly interjected, “Aw, come on. It’ll do us good to watch it. Good for a couple of laughs thinking back.” The second Martini kicked in, and with a smile on her face, she said, “You still have that DVD?” “Yes.” “Well, okay, let’s do it. Judge Judy doesn’t come on for a couple of hours. Sure. Go get it.”

I knew right where it was and I went to get it. I stalled a little for time, and dug out an old supply of Viagra that I hadn’t even thought to use for years. I hoped they still worked and popped not one, but two, of the highest dosage pills they made. I went deeper into my stash drawer and dug out the tube of Professional KY Lubricant and slipped it into my pocket. It would take a little time for the pills to kick in, so I took the DVD and fiddled around with it and the Video Recorder. I could feel my face flushing after a couple of minutes, a sure sign that the pills still worked. As the opening scenes started, I felt the slight headache that also accompanies the usage of that product, another good sign.

Boys, oh, boys, I’ll tell you. When we got to the good parts, we were both ready. By now, she had moved to sit next to me on the couch, and as Linda did her magic in the film, we began our “experiment” in earnest. Pretty soon, we were in the middle of foreplay, and we both realized that the KY was urgently needed. I handed it to her, and she said, “You apply it,” and I did, for she was already prone. I applied a healthy dose while the glare from the TV shone on our asses, and the ooh’s and aah’s emanating from the movie were starting to get to me. And to her, too.

Well, sir, the Viagra worked just fine, I can tell you. What didn’t work just fine was my muscle control and I was through before she even started. But, we found other ways to keep it going for her and finally the second pill kicked in and we completed the act together. Thank God. I’ll tell you, I really hate the taste of the KY, but I had little choice. Our climaxes were a lot less thrilling than we both remembered, but at 81 and 79, who could complain? I usually tell my friends – the ones that are still alive – that “getting lucky” at our ages means having a good bowel movement.

Because of my enlarged prostate, and my age, none of my bodily fluid was actually transferred at the appropriate time; instead it took several minutes and released from my body when I took a shower immediately after the show. Coming back into the living room, she was in a good mood, a smuggling mood, and as we cuddled, she looked up at me and said “Was it good for you?” We both laughed hysterically at that. We both knew, the closeness was wonderful, but the sex part? Ehhh.

As we all know, girls all talk to each other, and I notice now that when I come in contact with some of the ladies from the complex, they seem to be smiling coquettishly at me. Bravo, but I’m sticking to watching Judge Judy for the time being.

“Did you see that?”

“Um…”

“The correct answer is no, no you didn’t. Now walk faster.”

“But—wait up! I can’t walk that fast!”

“Sounds like a personal problem.”

“How did you—would you slow down?—do that?!”

“Do what?”

“Shoot like, fire out of your hands! And like, burn the carp outta that werewolf!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. What werewolf? I can’t shoot fire out of my hands and that’s silly anyway.”

“I saw it!”

“Saw what?”

“I SAW IT! Why are you denying everything?”

“Because nothing happened.”

“Then why are you smirking like that?”

“Like what?”

“Gah! Never mind! You’re clearly a delusional idiot, not an illegal Gifted.”

“Exactly. You’re clearly highly intelligent, Random-Weird-Girl-Who’s-Very-Nosy. What? You don’t like my summation of you? Fine—that’s fair, I suppose. How about Random-Girl-Baselessly-Accusing-Me-Of-Being-An-Enemy-Of-The-State? You don’t like that either? Well you’re definitely not picky whatsoever. Hey, I’m trying my best here.”

“Why—how are you walking so fast?!”

“Why are you following me?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because you saved my life?”

“Oooo. Sarcasm. How exactly did I save your life?”

“Seriously dude? You just torched a werewolf in that alley back there! There’s probably still scorch marks on the brick wall of that shady discount clothing store. Also, you told me to walk faster, so I assume you want me to follow you somewhere.”

“Wow you really are delusional. Hallucinatory psychosis, perhaps?”

“What…? No! I SAW IT!”

“Well of course you did.”

“Don’t smile at me like I’m three years old and don’t know what I’m saying.”

“You might not be three, but somebody sold you a bad batch of acids.”

“I’m not a druggy, either.”

“Ah. An eyeroll. Cute.”

“Slow down, for heaven’s sake!”

“If you wanna keep up, speed up.”

“Where are we going?”

“Away from this shady area. I’d rather not get mugged and I’m not exactly popular around here.”

“Because of the werewolf who was out when it’s not a full moon and it’s broad stinking daylight? Don’t give me that look, you know what I’m talking about.”

“Werewolf’s don’t exist and, if they did, they wouldn’t be out right now. Ah, here we are—step in quickly please.”

“Why are we in this creepy building? There’s so much dust in here I think I’m gonna choke. Are there any lights in here? It’s dark as—Ow! What did you stab me in the arm with that syringe for?!”

“Well that’s weird…”

“Well duh! Forget Me juice doesn’t work on me. I’m Gifted too, idiot.”

“Lemme guess, your weakness is werewolves? That makes sense. Sorry about the stabby stabby. Just a precaution.”

“Precaution for what?! It’s gonna take a lot more than that to stick me in a suggestible state and tell me everything was a dream, ya nube.”

“Noted.”

“Who are you?”

“Illegal, like you. Paranormal Gifted rating 7. How ’bout you?”

“6.”

“So you’re technically a witch.”

“I prefer the term Paranormal Energy Harnesser, but whatever floats your boat. Why are you staring at me like that?”

“First off, that’s a stupid title, and secondly, I may need your help. Come with me—there’s some people you need to meet.”

“Who?”

“A rated 9.”

“Wait, Diviners are real?!”

“Duh. You just saw a daylight werewolf—a Diviner isn’t that big of a stretch. Wow are you ever slow. Don’t smack me, ya stupid witch.”

Feed me crow. With a side helping of humble pie. Bird and entrails are what I deserve, garnished with an eye and a tooth or two. Just like cancer cures nicotine addiction, the wisdom of imminent death gives me a final perspective, too late to apply to my life all done and lived. I can only imagine the joy of this perspective, had it been mine before I did what made me deserve my bureaucratic fate, my legislated mortality.

Right? Wrong? It doesn’t matter on Death Row, because it’s been settled, etched in a book with the burning, hot caustic markings of my last breaths. That book is about to be closed forever and put up on a shelf, way high out of reach, to collect the same dust as the other books way high out of reach, the compendium of those who needed mortality to teach them living.

My new wisdom puts me at peace, so send me home, now that I am rehabilitated.

I don’t know if anybody cares but I came out to my friends a few days ago by showing them this limerick:

Been trying to find a way,

To say the words I still can’t say.

Despite my own doubt,

I’ll write my way out,

And let y'all know that I'm gay.

I know it’s not really great poetry (although I was really proud of the Hamilton reference) but it got the point across in a lighthearted way and that was all I really needed. I had it written out on a flashcard and I just dragged them all outside to read it in our school field. There were ladybugs everywhere, and they kept landing on us. My friends are all just lovely people, and they took something I’d been stressing about for a while and just made it right.

Mother--matron of mornings,

manners, methods, and mavericks.

Overcomer of obstacles, oligarchs,

and ornery offspring,

optimum overachiever.

More than mere mortal,

mover of the masses,

model for millions,

mother of mine.

M-O-M.

Agonizing allies,

avidly alligning an

awestruck alliance

and allegedly aiming

at annihilating any answers

asked, as an antagonist

always aids an antagonist.

Abstruse and alluring;

audacious and agreeable,

an array accumulate at arms

against an adversary,

absent awareness armed as all

ache at apparitions all around;

as an antagonist

always aids an antagonist.

Devil take me now

Throw me to the pit

Let me lust for battle

For I was born for it

Give me not redemption

But let me wear my sin

As I feast upon my fellows

With a chortle and a grin

I will wear them proudly

The errors of my ways

An angel may ask mercy

But a demon never prays

I swear I’ll never falter

Never hestitate or slack

Lead me not to salvation

Let me fall into the black

Let the gates sit open

For heaven it can wait

I’ll not envy paradise

Over my own chosen fate

Sentence me to hellfire

I need no judge or jury

Forge me as your sword

Let me embody fury

Neither grace nor glory

Can satiate my greed

Take me now, my Devil

For Hell has all I need