Yes, I do
Do I know you my brother?
My sister? Yes, I do.
I’m aware of your skin color
A straw of what you’ve been through
As I see you from far
I collect your distant halo
I record within, below, above par
And decide what it is you do
Then in all teleport stations
I discover the real you
You’re human of many nations
And one nation is us two
Yet why do you and I decide
What joins and divides?
I’m your brother of tides
Why sail joy into cries?
When I know you suffer
Something hurts me too
That’s what it’s like to be a brother
That’s what humans are supposed to do
You think I discriminate
How have you been raised?
Who slipped you love and hate?
Then told you all are worth praise?
I can’t know you well, I perceive
That I can tell who you are
Beyond false layers meant to deceive
We’re all humans under the same star
The Emphatic Ms. MacColl
It was a windy, sunless mid-October morning as Mona settled onto the steps of the MacColl family monument. From here, she could look out over the gently rolling hills and see the leaves slowly changing color. She loved coming to this spot in the cemetery. There was rarely another person about, so she felt as if she had the whole beautiful vista to herself.
She’d been there for about ten minutes, when she heard someone behind her cough. Quickly she turned around to see a delicate woman in a long skirt and bonnet peeping out from behind the monument. “Excuse me,” the old lady said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just that I’ve seen you here many times before, and I thought I might share a few words with you.”
The woman was “quaint”—that was the image that immediately came to Mona, and she was dressed in very unusual clothing. Her long, full skirt touched the ground and was made of a material that Mona had never seen before.
“No, that’s fine,” said Mona. “It’s funny that you say you’ve seen me here before though, because I’ve never seen you.”
“No dear, I imagine not. You see, I’m part of the MacColl family that was buried here years ago. Goodness, it must be close to 150 years now. How time flies! But anyway, I’m a spirit—a ghost, as most people like to call us.”
Mona drew back in astonishment. Halloween was about two weeks away and maybe this lady was involved in some kind of hoax. Or were they filming a movie nearby? She’d seen so many film crews in the neighborhood lately. “Oh, really?” Mona said. “Pleased to meet you. It’s not often I get the opportunity to talk to a ghost in the cemetery.”
“Don’t patronize me, dear. I know it’s hard to believe, but here . . . let me show you.” The old lady turned around and walked toward the monument . . . and kept walking right through it. She looked back at Mona with a smile. “It’s really not as hard as it looks,” she said, “but I’ve no time to waste, so I thought I might as well show you right away. Certain spirits can materialize quite easily when we spy a person as open as yourself—someone we know can benefit from our presence.”
Mona thought she must be in a dream, although the woman looked so real.
“I don’t know what to say. This is beyond anything I’ve ever experienced before, and yet I believe you. Here I am in a cemetery, all by myself, talking to a ghost, and somehow it seems perfectly normal.”
“Of course it’s normal, dear. It happens much more than people know. But as I said, you’re open, and you’re able to see.”
The two women stared at each other in fascination, while a strong wind blew through the nearby trees. A shower of brittle yellow leaves fluttered to the ground.
“Why are you in a hurry then?” asked Mona. “And why did you decide to talk to me in the first place?”
“Call me Euphemia,” said the ghost. “Euphemia MacColl, dearly departed wife of the late Harold MacColl, director of the Merchants’ Society of Beamsville. That’s the inscription on our monument.
“Oh, you can’t imagine how much I detested that man. It was always, ‘Do this, Phemie’ and ‘Get me that, Phemie’—as if he owned me, as if I were his slave. But what could I do? Life was like that in those days.
“I see you coming to the cemetery, admiring the old tombstones, thinking life was better back then. I could see the look of dissatisfaction on your face with your life the way it is now, and I kept saying to myself, One day I’m going to give that girl a good talking to and tell her she has so much, she doesn’t even realize it.
“Do you think for one minute that women of my time could walk anywhere they wanted as freely as you? Why, that alone is worth all the gold in the world. And those stretch pants you’re wearing—now that’s liberation. You sit on those old stone steps in all kinds of positions we never even imagined back then. I know you’ve had a good education too, and that if you want to, you can do anything you please. And look how tall you are! Good Lord, you look so healthy and fit. You must be eating well and playing sports, something else we couldn’t do in the old days.
“No, my dear. Looking back is a big mistake, whether it’s over a period of a hundred years or just yesterday. It’s a big, big mistake, and I just had to get you out of it—so here I am.”
The wind blew strongly once again, almost knocking down Euphemia in her voluminous grey skirt. She looked even frailer than before, as if the wrinkled skin on her face really were transparent.
“Thank you,” Mona said. “You’re absolutely right. But please don’t go. It’s so wonderful that you’ve come to speak with me from the past—from your grave, really. Please stay a bit longer, Euphemia, and tell me what life was like back then, and what it’s like to die, and how you’re able to appear again.”
“No, dear. As I said, I can’t stay long. And it’s getting so very cold. That wind feels as if it’s blowing right through me. So nice to have talked with you, finally, but my job is done now and I must be returning. Only remember what I said: No looking back.”
Another gust of wind blew up her billowing skirt and toppled the old lady to the ground. There she lay for a few moments, still and ashen, and ever so frail. And then her body just dissolved. There was nothing left of her on the dry autumn grass.
Mona was sad to see her go. She stared at the spot on the grass for a long time. The cemetery seemed very lonely now, with the leaves swirling around her feet and a light rain starting to fall. “Thank you, Euphemia!” she yelled—as if Euphemia’s spirit were everywhere. And she meant it from the bottom of her heart.
She picked up her knapsack and started the long walk back past the tombstones and wind-tossed trees. “Thank you,” she called one last time, her voice echoing through the empty grounds.
The wind laughed in return.
Chapter. Adlivun Pass incident.
The vessel was neither pitching nor rolling but steadily sailing towards Adlivan archipelago. The perfectly still weather, though, failed to becalm David Adler, who at long last abandoned his only desire to dive back into the dream after someone from the CSI unit had sighted out first ice and their agitated shouts sent the rest of the crew to the illuminators. The journey’s end was not far off. From then on for another hour the hustle in cabin was considerably louder, and combined with the constant drone of the engines made any attempt to start a dialog worthless. Finally he found comfort. After they had left the mainland It was more and more apparent that some sort of simple conversation with his new colleagues was inevitable,
whether he liked it or not. After all, he had forced himself to flung occasional words into the high-sounding platitudes.
David occupied a bunk in the most remote corner of the cabin. He pulled out a case file from a bit battered briefcase to give it a cursory glance, although he had already learned those terse line by heart:
“A group of ten students (eight men and two women) of Department of Geosciences at the UC, all experienced in long ski tours, organized an expedition across unnamed heights of Adlivun archipelago on January 27. One of the group members - George Jeugenes dropped out from the main part of the rout due to a sickness which caused a severe knee pain. He stayed at the village as the rest took a decision to continue the expedition in group of nine. Today It has been 12 days since they reported in. The hunters of the local Voguls tribe claimed they had found a dead body. George stated that according to the description the body could belong to Alex Cohleman. We started assembling a search party.”
It was altogether against his nature to feel sorry for anyone else and the job itself had taken toll on him, but this particular case almost reversed his sentiments and unearthed memories from his own childhood, - one of the hunting trips with his father to be precise, when he’d spent two days alone in the woods. He could hardly think of it without perturbation.
Going up on deck, Adler wished he had never accompanied the party. As soon as he got on top his exhausted consciousness treacherously responded to the bizarre view bursting upon him from behind the clouds of ice-dust and aroused dim ancestral and almost mystic fear unknown to a man of his profession. The vessel was piercing towards a desolate range of austerely aspiring white summits evilly framed by bleak obsidian sky and descending ridges of hoary granite wall that flexed itself against the ocean. Muffled moan of the wind wandering among centenary tree trunks occasionally reached the deck and the whole spectacle imposed an appalling impression that the vessel was carrying the crew further and further into grim white immensity haunted by an enigmatic omnipresent sinister essence.
Inches
inches
inched up like a spider
crawled up the skin
trickled up the spine
shivered the quiet
awoken the blinds
loud screams
a flicker of a lamp
a strangers footprint meshed into the carpet
a heated demon breathed into the air
became thick
her hands reached to her neck and he whisper
hollowed and empty
the way he breathed
into her ear
as he curled his words
around her name
made it sound like silk and wine
the walls got smaller
the pushed closer
she suffocated
in the need
to go 12 inches
deep in her soul
she begged for mercy
she shuttered
at the crack
of the door
she wavered
at the light
walking
in through
the
crack
of
the
door
she
had
locked
she
was
only
inches
away
from ..........
12 inches deep in desire
Lullaby
As soon as it was clear no help was coming a shade of obedience flickered in his eyes. Well aware the air at this altitude sought to displace the strongest drug, his will flexed as hard as his body, and the breathing mask disappeared somewhere in snow far out of reach.
The solitude and endless waiting were gone with the cold wind that touched his still sentient skin, and he beheld them, concealed in silence of their majesty, crowned with starlight by the night, as frozen waves of some elder-world ocean, that had faded from human’s memory. They allowed nothing but to contemplate them, in an indifferent demonstration of a man’s inferiority, with their shadows being brighter then our minds and their silence louder then our cry. With each breath they blew into his body and soul their own freshness, drowning him under waves of numbness, dragging away to a different dimension no one had returned from.
Black sharp peaks only, revealed the tonnes of granite hidden under the velvet silk mantle of snow. He found himself in mysterious temples of peace, too big and ancient for him to enter, but too tempting for his heart to stay and enjoy the everlasting serenity.
Like a child to it’s mother, they aspire to touch the veil of sky. Giants, grown under wandering stars, destined by the Lord to be the thrones no one would ever ascend.
What’s Behind the Door
The stranger knocked upon the door,
A creaking, wooden throb,
And someone on the other side
Unlatched and turned the knob.
Uncertainty, a soft, "Hello,"
And, "May I use your phone?"
The person on the other side
Appeared to be alone.
An observation taken in,
No pictures on the wall.
He pointed somewhere down the way-
"Go on and make a call."
The thunder boomed; the stranger stalled
As wires were cut instead.
The gentleman began to sense
A subtle hint of dread.
A conversation thus ensued-
"So what has brought you out?
The rain has flooded everything,
And wiped away the drought.
Say, did you walk, or did you drive?
Why don't I take your coat?"
The stranger slowly moved his arms,
A sentimental gloat.
The water from the pouring skies
Enveloped cloth and shoe.
"Say, would you like a place to sleep?
I'll leave it up to you."
The person on the other side
Discarded his mistrust.
The stranger said his tire was flat,
And shed the muddy crust.
"The phone won't work," he also said.
"It could just be the storm.
Perhaps I will stay here tonight,
To keep me safe and warm."
The patron of the house agreed.
He hadn't seen the wire.
The chilly dampness prompted him
To quickly build a fire.
"You have a name? They call me Ed.
My wife was Verna Dean.
She passed away five years ago
And left me here as seen.
I guess it's really not so bad.
We never had a child.
I loved that Verna awful much,"
He said and sadly smiled.
"No property to divvy up.
The bank will get it all.
Say, do you want to try again
To go and make that call?"
The stranger grinned and left the flame
As to the phone he strode.
Within his pocket, knives and twine
In hiding seemed to goad.
A plan was formed- he'd kill the man;
Eviscerate him whole.
The twine would keep him firmly held;
The knife would steal his soul.
A lusty surge erupted hence;
A wicked bit of sin.
The stranger hadn't noticed yet
That someone else came in.
About the time a shadow fell,
He spun to meet a pan.
The room around him faded out
As eyes looked on a man.
A day or two it seemed had passed,
And when he woke all tied,
The stranger gazed upon old Ed
Who simply said, "You lied."
Reversing thoughts, the moment fled
And Ed said in a lean,
"No worries, stranger. None at all.
Hey, look, here's Verna Dean!"
He looked upon a wraith in rage;
It seemed his little lie
Combusted in a burning fit-
He didn't want to die.
So many victims in his life,
Some fifty bodies strewn.
And now he was the victim; now
The pain to him was known.
The stranger fought against the twine,
And noticed by his bed
The knife once in his pocket left
A trail of something red.
A bowl filled full of organs sat
As Verna poured some salt.
She exited with all of them.
"You know, this is your fault.
We demons wait for just the day
The guilty take the bait
And play with matches one last time-
I simply cannot wait
To taste the death within your flesh;
The venom in your gut.
So now you know the way they felt-
Hey, you've got quite a cut!"
The person on the other side
Removed his human skin-
Before his wife came back for more,
He offered with a grin:
"Say, stranger, is there anything
You'd like to say at all?"
I looked at all the blood and said,
"I'd like to make that call ... "
Paved into the Concrete
Paved into the concrete
Are our defiled routines...
...The history books stay clean,
But the snails, and worms,
Know better...
...We all have to face
Our karma, and mend
This past together!...
Paved into the concrete...
Froze in cement graves...
...Choices that the
Architects
Of our present day
Have made...
...We don't have to
Take the same track,
Just because a path
Was laid...
Paved into the concrete...
...But free to
Make a
Change.
©
2017
Bunny Villaire
Halfway Places
The real estate agent tells her to reconsider. She says she has some truly amazing houses to show before she makes a decision. But I’m watching Evelyn not listen to her, and I see how she looks at the place with that little half smile of hers, that twitch of the finest lines around her mouth, wrinkling and smoothing over in an instant, and I know that nothing is going to dissuade her from purchasing this shitty, dilapidated house.
Friends and family make their appeals. She tells them I know I’ve heard the rumors, that’s all they are, rumors raised from nothing, created for the sake of gossip and for scaring naive outsiders, do people talk of nothing else in this shitty little hick town.
I only want what Evelyn wants, it’s been so long since she's wanted anything. I think she'll finally be able to start over here, maybe this will make her forget and live. But people keep telling her things she doesn't want to hear and they all sounded like variations of a theme, so finally she stops answering calls altogether.
I’m worried about the amount of work needed to make this thing halfway livable and Evelyn looks so wan and lost all the time. Here she is alone with this monster derelict house and each day is spring cleaning and after that there is still more work to be done.
Evelyn works sunup until she collapses in bed at night.
I'm sick of these halfway places, she says to no one.
Evelyn, pretty Evelyn, I’ll never forget the day I ran after you in the rain, barefoot in the park, with Caleb just beginning to jut out of your stomach, and I was running after you yelling for you to stop, scared but laughing because you were laughing and you were beautiful in the rain with your hair dripping down your face, you were so goddamned beautiful, it hurt to look at you.
Now you walk around tired and quiet, with those sunken hungry eyes.
When was the last time you laughed?
Slowly the house becomes whole again. She polishes until every surface gleams, she puts in new windows, paints, organizes, reassembles. Her room upstairs overlooks the garden and pond in the back of the house.
There are things here, hidden in the silence, that I don’t like to think about. And the force that drives Evelyn to fix this place—that scares me even more.
Caleb was two years old. He was the perfect baby, quiet and uncomplaining. We worried that he was sleeping too much, too often and too deeply, and not eating enough. We were good at fretting—everything seemed like a potential disaster.
You brought us here with you, didn’t you, I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to shake her, grip her by the shoulder so hard that she could feel my nails digging in her skin. You disturbed our baby's rest, how could you do it, Caleb just two years old and a barely visible lump underneath the blankets. You dug us up, God knows how you did it, you had to work with my decomposing weight and Caleb like a limp doll tucked under your arm. (They told you to cremate and you said no). Caleb he loved the color blue, he loved entwining his tiny perfect hands in his mother’s hair and pulling, he loved to sleep. A deep sleep, almost impossible to wake up.
Sometimes at night after another exhausting day, I’ll keep watch over my wife’s sleeping form. She curls up in a fetal position with her hands protecting her stomach.
Evelyn, I heard a laugh I swear I heard it, last night it came from downstairs. I couldn’t tell where it could have come from, or if it were male or female or even human, but I know I’ve never heard it before, and you were asleep. And sometimes in that area she calls the living room, there’s voices and footfalls, the swish of clothing, things clattering to the floor.
Sometimes I hear her singing around the house. Once, I heard her laugh and that sound broke around the house, and all throughout it, and the silence was quieter afterwards.
She doesn't eat. Her sunken little face and the bruised sockets, the limp wrists, and sharp edges of her hip and ribs—I can't take it.
She is fading into the house. I'm helpless. She no longer has eyes I can recognize, those aren’t the hands I loved and held and promised to protect throughout life, death, world without end. She teeters up and down the halls, in and out of rooms. I hear her talk to things I can't see. She leaves me; she goes where I can’t follow. She’s so thin and translucent, sunlight streaming from the windows looks strong enough to hurt her, to melt her away. She floats on drafts throughout the house, and mirrors hide her passing.
The voices are so beautiful she says and I didn’t believe her but I see now. The whole house swells with their presence, with colors bursting and small ripples of light extending, and they are calling where are you and I say here I am here I am here—and they welcome me with voices raised and over the singing and the echoes of ringing colors I hear the voices of so many loved ones, I see Evelyn and she is holding in her arms our son and they are coming for me