There is no crime in Quoxe

Poison is often a tool of our own tongues

My only poison is the drop of a bottle

But the city of Quoxe has poison its own

One glance at a capital camera

your face, thoughts, profile, foreseen forever

Yet one man exists, a killer, has evaded city grasp

They say he's monstrous and ghastly

A face that can transform in a second

Eyes that could suck a soul, one bright

one dark and tall and slender as tree bark

Passes from frames as a shadow, as a

lightning strike beneath a swift of clouds

I stated it all impossible, I designed the cameras.

But the calls added up with the bottles

The first call, when I left in a haste for my

medication. The doctor asking how my sleep

had been, and if recent killings had deprived

me further. "Killings? Of course not. There is no

crime in Quoxe."

The second call, at dusk, in a knock on my door,

an officer reporting two bodies, but when I

checked the footage in the small of my home,

nothing. A slight blackening, so split you could

miss it, then a body. Two. Three.

I was called into city counsel, gave my reports.

"It's an error on his part!"

"Suicides, they are! There's no crime in Quoxe!"

Indeed, there was no crime in Quoxe.

But there indeed was a killer amongst the high ranks.

"Gentlement, your attention," I stated with a grunt,

"My technology is perfect. And in Quoxe there is no crime.

But I will investigate to ease your consciouses."

I went first to the house of crime, where the bodies

were identified.

Alice Jenson

Carrie Ply

Stuart Ty

All employees of the council, humble servants of the lords

Alice Jenson was my scretary, responsible for

upkeep and small favors, she one proposed to me

Carrie Play was the janitor, she once locked

me in my office by mistake, then proposed to me

Stuart Ty was my assistant, often inquiring about

advanced payments and promotional opportunities

A moment I left, back to city counsel,

I pulled out of my bag, a small mask, looked like another

I returned to the council, another human entirely.

"I am Detective Narwal. I am investigating the three murders

committed by the designated Quoxe killer."

My suspisions fell to the council, six members who

for privacy's sake I must simply call by number.

One told me that there was no crime.

Two pulled off my mask.

Three called for the guards.

Four stipped me down.

Five escorted me out.

Six revoked my title.

They say he's human but uneasy

A face that can transform in a second

Eyes that have never slept,

dark bags slender as tree bark

Passes from frames as a shadow, as a

lightning strike beneath a swift of clouds

The next day the camera mysteriously collapsed

A technical error, no doubt

And another face appeared

And suddenly, dead

One, two, three, four, five, six.

The mirror provides hints,

every now and then. No drops

from the bottles. No lights or

detectives. No council, no promotion

no proposals, just the gouge of loneliness

Fortunately, I have nothing to fear

The footage is missing, engrained in my mind

There is no crime in Quoxe.

When I was in elementary school and my teachers would force me to share my worst fears with the class, I always answered "red".

No, I'm not afraid of blood. That would be stupid, because to be afraid of blood would be to be afraid of something that's allowing me to breath right now.

No, I'm not afraid of the terrible weather predicted by tacky radars. That would be irresponsible. Weather is inevitable and weathermen are always wrong.

No, I'm not afraid of makeup. That would be ridiculous. I don't even wear make up.

No, I'm not afraid of roses. That would be useless. Roses come in all sorts of colors, despite what fairytales wish to believe.

No, I'm not afraid of sunsets. That would just be plain dumb. What have sunsets ever done to me besides inspire?

No, I'm not afraid of stop signs. That would be strange. Stop signs save the lives of anyone who bothers to read them.

But yes, I'm afraid of red, and that's what I said.

But what always stumped me, what always silenced my soul into deep thought and confusion, was when they asked the simple question, "Why?"

I never had an answer.

You are the knot at the end of a rope

You dangle sideways while you

entangle victims into your web

You are the other side of a reflection

the one that widens and never shrinks

Are you me?

Where on the rope do my qualities cling?

Am I the round of the knot

Or nothing but a loose thread?

No, I can look up

I do, undistorted, symmetrical

I am not you

Him and Her, lovers,

collided corpses’ hands,

blade’s poison, taking stand,

shredded fabrics, covers.

Oh, the survivors, to discover…

Did they understand

the blood on their damned hands?

Witless, to love another.

Perhaps His thoughts whispered,

"Hate changed them, so will sorrow."

Instead, how the world bickered

of foolish love tomorrow.

Blood only thickened

painted homes barred hollow.

What is 'the a' (uh)?

Is it 'the apple' or 'an apple'?

Is apple on

'a desk' or 'the desk'?

Apple, desk, Uh, a

Perhaps it is better as

'a the'? No, 'the a' most

definitely. But, then again:

should ‘the a’ acknowledge

‘a’ as the subject of its own

sentence? No, most definitely

‘the’ is more deserving.

Perhaps 'the' equals signifier, perhaps

'the's' are simply grander than

'a's', Uh, ah, 'the a', then again:

‘an’ has a definite outcry

for those pesky vowels, but

whoever remembers ‘an’ when

‘a’ is a viable option? ‘the’ fights

both, three on two, three on one

Until “the” and “a”—

“the a” stands once more

Please, “a”, “the” don’t fight

for attention. I promise you,

I’m “the” only one

paying “a”-ttention.

Life drags over the weight of a spine

Breaths quicken as the legs numb

You see how ordinary your life has become

Ordinary shelves on ordinary tables

Ordinary roof on an ordinary house

Ordinary person in an ordinary mirror

Ordinary soul in an ordinary body

You look at yourself

You think I am ordinary

But what is this bridge to the extraordinary?

Find a voice behind that sings its song:

Find the ordinary behind and the extraordinary beyond

Find what stands between you and extraordinary

Find the obstacle that keeps you ordinary

You follow the light

Beyond the thin walls

You follow the voice as your senses fall

See the blue sky above

See speckled green grass

See towers touch clouds

See the air between lives

You trail on with the voice

Hear as it sings

Guides you through the world in spring

Taste the chemical air

Taste pinewood and sea

Taste maple and evergreen

Taste desert and sun

Surely, you think

This is past the ordinary

But was is it that makes it extraordinary?

Hear the blast of each horn

Hear cars on paved roads

Hear countries and cultures

Hear wind carry the earth

This, you think

Is beyond the ordinary

But how shall I cross my path to extraordinary?

Smell the roses in bloom

Smell the sting of each hive

Smell the oil and clouds

Smell the canvas of meadow

There’s a key, speaks the voice

A key to the best

Beyond reach of the beating heart in each chest

Feel the grass at your feet

Feel the hand in each hand

Feel the sun stain your face

Feel yourself follow

Show me, you think

Let me open the door

The lock to unravel, let me be more

Follow me, says the voice

Follow past pavement and dirt

Follow past gravel and seas

Follow past faces below, above, and beyond

You obey without thought

But the light pauses, replies

You are almost there, but you must close your eyes

Close your eyes, it repeats

Close your senses and sight

Close your eyes as an ordinary

Close to open and be extraordinary

Your lids shut tight

It grabs your fingers like a hand

Doubt creeps for you cannot understand

Nothing will you find?

Nothing in this life

Nothing to your control

Nothing you can chamber

You hear a door creak

Your limbs come to a stop

You hear your breaths drop

Open your eyes

Open, says the light

Open them ordinary

Open and see the extraordinary

Your lips quake at the sight

Seeing your lamp, your house, your shelf

For you find you are looking at yourself

This poem is not great,

It's not even good,

but it rhymes,

like a good poem should

It is rather short

and skinny and tall,

but it rhymes,

a trait above of all

It may remind you of something,

You say when you chat,

but it rhymes,

and who can argue with that?

It is not consistent

in pacing or tone,

but it rhymes,

so it shouldn't make you groan

And while this poem may sound

like teenage chatters,

it rhymes,

and that's all that matters.

I would be lying if I claimed to have natural gifts. Like most people, I found things I enjoyed that I pursued without much money or talent to back me up. When I'm asked how I balance it all, or if it ever is just easy, I don't lie. My mind may adapt to different stimuli in each environment, but it's hard.

"Hard," a word that can describe the surface of a tabletop, is the best way to describe how I accomplish things and the natural course of action for topics when they cross paths with my mind.

The thing is, I don't want anything to be easy. Hard work has been my defining trait in everything do. If life were easy for everybody all of the time, it wouldn't be very human, would it? I believe being human, and knowing that human means "hard," is the driving force that brings the best people on life together. Human and the inevitable "hard" leads to achievement.

It's my hands I see first. Sculpted like ice, like clay, its creases permanent. Then I look up. My neck cracks, but molds into the image, bricks, light competing with the stars, black hoods. I feel the scattered remains of trees scream to me, ask to be sprouted again. One stands magnificent over its fellow residents. A great tree. I feel a magnet in my chest, pulling me towards it.

I stumble through the obliterating numbness. There's a dull shout, but I focus my vision ahead. To the leaves and the veins so intricately woven from bark to branch. A fence folds in around it, scraped against the rough texture of its limbs. I latch my fingers to it, prick away at the wiring. My breaths are one with the tree. I feel its gasp for relief, watch its leaves stretch to sunlight.

Something travels up my nose and melts my lungs. I see it. Like the old steamboats, but strapping out of the roof of a long rectangular house with thousands of windows. I feel the tree groan with me, begging relief of the smoke, of the equivalent to fire, being burned alive. It's up my sleeves and arms. I can't snuff it out.

I must be on an invaded planet. We must be at war. But the young couple on a nearby bench, a brother of the great tree, with their faces intimate, prove otherwise. A foreign city, somewhere I haven't seen. I must have been transported.

But the sign. Tranchestor Avenue. I recognize it and my lips tingle, recognizing a feeling of another set against them. I met someone here. Bright blue eyes. There was a house, and for each tree chopped another one was planted. We were the town freaks, those who saw the beauty of the forest. But I don't see a forest. I see a tree.

I can't remember her name, but I remember blue eyes, like the sky on a clear day. If I could ring a name familiar, I would grant its beauty to the tree instead, for she could not still live in a place such as this. But an image, her stomach rounded, overwhelms me. I stumble from a flashing light, from a large yellow car with a capped man inside, and latch back onto the tree bark. I wrap my arms around it. I feel as if it is all that's now left of the great forest, where our cabin once laid. But I can't explain it.

Her stomach. Swelled. A child. Blue eyes.

Something sniffs. This is different from the engines going down the black pavement, or the fumes out of each house, or the buzz of fake lights. I recognize it as something my own face might do. The sound of humanity. The last remains of what I heard out of myself or her when she suddenly wasn't there anymore. When there was blackness.

Another sniff. On the other side of the tree. Could it be...

I circle to the other end, thinking that perhaps she might still be here. Waiting by the tree. Or even with another man, wrinkled but beautifully aged, happy to live on without me. That is how I would see it. A happy life.

But it is not her. A young lad is kneeled before the great tree. His eyes are closed, face is familiar, but I know I haven't seen it. Just as the tree. My heart stumbles at plastered brick beside the tree's roots. Something is carved inside.

In Remembrance of Frank and Margarate Tale, 1917-1952.

Then another stone to its side, connected by a bronze formation of a robe:

And their daughter, Mary Tale, 1982

Mary. The name we had agreed on.

I stare at the rope, a bronze symbol with a slight noose. 1952. Impossible. That was the year I left her. 1952, when the world became blackness. I remember her, strawberry curls, the oceanic eyes. Her years ahead. Her rounded stomach with spring and life inside. Thirty-five. She was thirty-five as was I, school lovers to embark on a world's great journey.

Wait by the tree, I had said.

My eyes are dry. I turn back to the sniffer and step closer. The boy is much too young to be a lover, young as a mourner who knows not his grief. Too much shine in his eyes to be in some preserved state like myself. But I recognize pride in his deep frown, and I know he has planted the great tree.

Then I see an ancient rope in his hand. He flinches and stares at me, and I see the blue eyes of the sky.

Talent's relationship with writing is a limited endeavor. Talent's doses are few and far between, with some of the best talents locked away in the cages of their own mind, unable to see past their own perspective.

Social media has drained perspective with opinions swayed into objectivity. Noise overtakes quiet moments of serenity, voices swallow individuality like a poison permeating creativity's airways.

Ideas are limitless, but powerless without pursuit. When written down, they are humbled to their origins, a pen scribbled over a pad of paper, where they will crumble and rot without the writer's mind and heart furthering its journey.

What does it mean then, to be a good writer in a society such as this? Above all, determination. A "good writer" is an oxymoron, for a natural way with words is nothing without passion, bravery, and the wit of a soldier outnumbered a thousand to one. A good writer embraces our anti-writing environment, finds serenity in the noise, inspiration in a single thought, and significance without pronounced talent.

A good writer writes.