It was a light he sought, and it was a light he saw. Faint it was through the fog, a small halo of gold shimmering upon a finger of land. The man was drawn by the light as a moth is drawn, for where a light shines a soul dwells, and the man in the dinghy had been long upon a soulless sea. The light beckoned him to accept its shelter, and to know its people, for a light needs its people as they need it. The man started for it as he must, the light being his only map through the black swells. He pulled hard at the oars, driving them deep, feeling the muscle ripple through his shoulders and back. The ripple was good. He called on strength, and it came. There was life in the old dog yet. The dinghy jumped to his will, but soon the sound of waves upon a beach quitted his oars. It would be tricky for a weary man to try a beach landing through the breakers. His fingers ached upon the oars. He arched his back, allowing his cramped muscles to stretch. One hundred yards through the maelstrom awaited rest from this tiresome rowing. His choice was obvious, so he resumed his work, aiming the dinghy for the sound of the crashing waves, pulling her toward that alluring light. The dinghy lifted high over the swells and rode them down nicely, nimble to his oars. He caught the lip of a swell and gave a great heave, pushing the boat along its face, stealing speed from the current. There was real danger now, so the man made ready to leap. It could come from a swamping in the waves, or it could be a smash against unseen rocks. He could not know the voyage’s end, but no matter, he would follow that light. With some luck he would share a table in the light’s glow after this trial, a table with food and wine, a table with others of his kind.

The dinghy’s stern rode high upon a crest. Her bow raced downward, into the trough, her nose reaching greedily for the shore. The man shouted encouragement to his tiny boat, pulling one last time before a stronger force wrenched the oars from his hands, flinging them into the roaring tempest surrounding him. A blast of saltwater found his face, cold it was, and wicked. The dinghy made a hard starboard turn before the wave and over she went, tossing the man toward the beach before the ocean’s weight smashed his tiny boat into smithereens.

The man took his leap from the dinghy and rolled through the wave, reaching bottom. He pushed for the surface as the next breaker washed over, tumbling him toward the beach like the unwanted jetsam that he was, end over end, over end. When his tumult finally ended the water’s sounding was scarcely two feet, but the deeper water pulled at him greedily, wanting him back, not yet through with its fun. He fought for footing in his heavy boots, they being filled now with water and sand. He made it up to his sea-legs just as the next wave hit, sending him forward and down, knocking him back into the salty froth. The last of his leaking strength washed out across the sand, racing the surging fingers of sea up the beach even as the undertoe pulled his limp figure back toward the depths.

The man dug his fingers into packed, wet sand that melted through his fingers like liquid steel, the sand being uncooperative, and in league with the sea. He rolled to his back, awaiting the water’s inevitable return. He had time to notice, before the water washed over his eyes, that the sea-fog lingered above him even here on the beach, blotting out the stars.

And then came the dream. The dream of a great, red-haired woman in a fine, sea-foam gown, pulling him from the water. A likely heroine this angel; thick and stout, as an Irish lass should be. He surrendered himself to her as she took the shell that was left of him, lifted it by its arms, and drug it as far as she could into the deeper, softer sand. If Death was coming tonight, let it come in just such a form. “Yes,” he thought. “Let Death come with bare feet, and with the smell of the sea in her fiery hair.

Milo McKinney awoke to the crackle of a wood fire. It was still night, but the night was not still. Some distance away angry waves hammered the beach. Closer still a snore, a soft, womanly snore with the attached “whistle” at its end. Milo was under a blanket. He was surprised to discover that he was naked beneath it. He rose to sit. Where then were his clothes? And who had removed them?

She lay abeam of the fire, upon a blanket stretched ’or the sand. He could not make her features, but he was sure that it was his dream woman, the coppery headed sea-sprite, she who had pulled him from his watery grave. He rose from his pallet, letting the bedding fall to the sand. From this position he found his clothes spread about the fire, drying in it’s warmth. He reached for the leather breeches. They were damp yet, but he pulled them on. Milo was a proud man, and would not be at a disadvantage when she woke. The shirt and boots he left to dry.

She had piled driftwood close by, so Milo added wood to the fire before taking a turn on watch. He took a position away, but convenient to inspect her as she slept. “What sort of woman pulled a large, drowned man from the ocean, stripped him naked, then slept a harpoon’s toss away? What if that man awoke angry?” He wondered. “What if he awoke lusting? What would stop him from... ? What indeed?” Milo McKinney had been called a rough man, he had done some things, away back when, but he hoped he was not a mean man. There must be some “thing” that supplied her confidence. He wondered if she had a concealed knife beneath her bedding, or a pistol? His curiosity grew as he watched her dream, wondering what spirits lived within her, and why did those spirits twitch at the muscles of her face, leading him to smile?

It was the end of the night, but it was not day. It was that veiled, gray moment between the aspects. With a stick Milo stirred dying embers to smoke, as man always has. With a breath he blew that smoke to flame, as man always will. Above him beggardly gulls dipped wings in the breeze, crying out for a generous sea to spit them out some breakfast. Far away on the eastern horizon a steely sea followed along behind the steely sky, they trudging through their journeys before the dawn, he nudging her toward the day with a velvety nose.

She awoke with beauty, just as she had slept, only now emerald eyes shone beneath her brassy hair. Those eyes looked at him expectantly. Emotionless eyes they were. Eyes waiting for the story he would tell, ears listening for how well it would be told. Hers were great and caffeinated green eyes that darted when he looked into them, skittering away behind cream and sugar skin. “Ah,“ he thought. “Irish eyes with a secret to conceal.”

A rough man he had been called. He would let her wait. Surprisingly, she said nothing. Milo was set aback by the nothing that she said. It is not a woman’s way to say nothing. Milo knew people, he knew their natures, although he mostly wished he didn’t, but sometimes he was surprised. He hoped this would be one of those times, and she one of those people who surprised him.

Milo added wood to the fire. He backed up to it, awaiting its warmth. She watched him from her blankets, her eyes following his movements, effortless movements practiced beside many fires on many mornings. He still wore only the breeches, despite the cold breeze off of the water. His legs and chest were thick with muscle. His feet were planted in the sand beside the fire like the trunks of a great human tree, solid, and seemingly immovable. Her husband was a strong man. It would take a strong man for a woman such as she, but she was not sure she had ever seen a man with a physique to equal this one. While she watched him her heartbeat quickened, angering her. Was she that easily conquered? No. She was not, but then she was also unsure what she would do if he came to her blanket and stood over her, or how she would feel about it if he did.

With that she stood, walking to the opposite side of the fire from where the man stood. The deep sand felt good on her feet, just as the fire felt good on her skin. She wondered that she no longer worried about her lack of propriety. Two years ago she would never have allowed a strange man to see her bare feet, or even to see her wearing this thin dress, but those things seemed trivial now that love was dead, and now that melancholy had made her its home.

For two years she had been here alone; two years battling the sandy soil for a garden, and battling the surf for her sustenance. Two years watching. Two years waiting. If her husband was coming back he would have done so by now. She knew this, but still she watched, and still she waited. That is what she was doing when she heard this man’s shout. She had been watching through the fog for a ship’s light. She was not just watching for any ship, but for his ship, the ship bearing her name, the “Lilly Anne”. Most any time of day she could be found watching, sometimes from the window, sometimes from the door, or sometimes from the garden, or from the beach, but always watching, ever waiting. Before now the longest she had awaited his return had been four months. This time it was two years. No, he was not coming back.

“You must be hungry,” she said. “I will see about food.”

He turned as she walked up the beach toward the cottage among the dunes. “Practical,” he thought. She walked easily through the deep sand, walking on the balls of her feet, her ankles making quarter turns for traction. The breeze pressed the lacy, sea-foam dress tight against her curves. He admired its cling, and her curves, and her walk. He was a man.

When she hailed him, he went. On the way he noticed the sagging gate with its useless latch. He noticed the overgrown shrubs, and the shutters with their peeling paint. Inside was tidy, showing the touch of a woman, but the absence of a man was obvious. An oak bucket had been placed to catch water from a roof leak, and some of the bricks had popped free from the hearth, needing to be re-mortared.

But what really caught his attention were the books. The walls were lined with their leather-backed volumes. There were maritime guides, atlases and constellation guides, as well as books of history, literature, and poetry. There were books from antiquity, books named by Homer, Rumi, Boccaccio and Cervantes. A poor man his life long, Milo had never seen such a treasure. He pulled one from the wall, Virgil’s “Aeneid”, letting loose its rich smell. He smiled at its comfortable weight, the weight of the knowledge of those who had come before, of those who had lived and learned, and who had much to tell that was useful yet. The cover opened unwillingly, tightly, concealing its secret, as though it had never been asked to tell it ’til now.

The meal itself was simple, vegetables and clams. There was no bread, no oil, no milk.

“You are here alone?”

“My husband is at sea.”

“How long?”

She looked up, her eyes finding his. “It is an unfair question,” The eyes denounced him. “When I have invited you inside my home, and prepared you a meal.”

The “eyes” were correct. It was an unfair question. He must remember his manners, something not given much thought to during his years aboard a ship.

“Thank you for helping me... for pulling me from the sea.”

“It was nothing. I would do it for a dog.”

“Aye, no doubt you would, but it was indeed something, as I am much bigger than a dog, and much heavier to pull. How far is it to a town?”

“It is far. Five miles, and a ferry ride.”

“I will leave after the meal. Make a list of the supplies you need.”

“I have no money.”

“Make the list. I will bring the items.”

And bring them he did. Three days later, Lilly Anne sat watching the breakers from her rock when she heard a commotion coming up the path. It was the man, and he was not alone. A goat trailed him, the goat pulling a small wagon. The wagon was piled high with goods and chickens. The man carried a pack himself, also filled with goods. A dog trotted behind the wagon, a small, gray dog with large, white whiskers.

Caution ruled over her excitement. “You could not pay for all of this?”

“It was foraged, Lilly Anne.” His chest was puffed, proud of his ‘work’. “These things have been liberated for you from those with plenty, by an admiring corsair!”

“You mean that it was stolen by a pirate.”

His look was pained. “Madame, pirates are hung over the gunwales. It is no good to call a man a pirate, and is like to get him killed.”

“And it is good then to call him a thief? Well, I will not be called one. It all goes back!”

“But Madame, if I may say so, you are in need? I am in need! We are in need of these things, and here we have the use of them?”

“I hope I shall never be in need of someone else’s things. It was taken from the people of the outer-banks, it was taken from my neighbors. Turn it all around. It is going back! We must take all of it back immediately!”

And she did, with Milo McKinney tagging along. All of it went back excepting the hens and the cock, which were won at cards in the tavern, played against the stolen goat, but won square from the man who lost them. Looking at the man, his face red with rum, Lily Anne suspected that the fowl were stolen as well, but finding from whom would be impossible, as this man was not telling.

They tied up the hens and the cock and carried them under their arms the five miles back across the narrow island. The gray dog was still with them, he finding the wanderers more interesting than his home. The dog zig-zagged behind them, searching out the interesting smells. When those smells were found he stopped to smile before sprinting ahead to begin it all over again, his enthusiasm boundless.

The walk was silent. The woman was angry. The man was unconcerned, but still wary of an angry woman. He would rather suffer the flogging from a cat o’ nine tails than the flogging from an angry woman’s tongue, the first flog at least having a known duration.

“The books in the cottage, mam? They are yours?” He broke the silence, his curiousity strong.

“They belong to my husband.”

“Do you read them, then?”

“Aye. They are all that keeps me sane here. Do you read?”

“Aye.” His chin lifted, as though she would doubt. “I have read a little, and would read more, but there are few books on board a ship, and little opportunity at sea. Books are expensive, and are heavy ballast for a man adrift.”

“From my observation you seem to care little about the price of it when you want something.”

“Aye, tis true, but I have a conscience about taking from a woman.”

“Ah, you loved your mother, then?”

“No... I did not know her.”

“I see.” And sadly, she did.

When back at the cottage, they untied their bundles, loosing the hungry chickens to scour the yard for insects. The dog ran into the deep sawgrass, happily chasing away the terns, and the pipers. The man set to work on the gate, worried the chickens would escape. The woman stood with arms crossed under her breasts, her hands clinging to her biceps, content with the industries of man, and dog, and fowl on the quiet dunes. Only yesterday she had been lonely. She would likely be so again tomorrow, but today she had the animated motions of a makeshift family as adopted souls shared her home. She would not get attached, but she could watch, and enjoy.

Later, Lily Ann stood, chopping vegetable, and looking at the books on their wall shelves. No, she would not get attached. Lily Anne would not name the dog, nor would she love the man. She would not love the man, but neither did she want him to go. There was “something” she could do, though. There was a way. Here was a masculine man, but she had seen the wonder in his eyes when he looked at the books, and she had heard the wonder in his voice when he asked her about them. She pulled the volume of Tennyson from its shelf. Unlike the stiff book Milo had pulled from the shelf earlier, the Tennyson was stained and dog-eared. There were underlined passages and notes in the margins. The Tennyson was her husband’s favorite. Matthias had read “Mariana” to her often, until “Mariana” had become Lily Ann’s own favorite, made more so since her own lonely trials.

“She only said, my life is dreary. He will not come,” she said. She said, “I am aweary, aweary. I would that I were dead.”

He was a man of the sea, a man of the wind and the weather. He had so many years balancing upon the swells that he was uncomfortable now upon solid ground. Milo McKinney had won fortunes with his sword, and had lost them to a pair. It was not fortune that led him to sea, nor was it fortune that kept him there. It was the search, the search for fortune, the search for love, the search for answers. It was wondering what lands lay over the horizon. It was wondering what people inhabited those lands, and what Gods those people feared. It was that knot in the stomach when your ship drew alongside another ship that had a man upon its deck, the man with a sword in his hand, that man staring back at you ’or the gunwale and ready to test your strength.

But there was also something missing aboard ship. Milo had taken orders from many captains, and he had given many orders, in turn. Each of those men Milo had followed he had found wanting. Some were cruel and quick with the whips, some greedy, some ignorant, some lazy, foolish, or cowardly. That was this last one, cowardly. He had been quick to attack a small boat, a fisherman alone, but he was without the courage to try a real prize. There was much that Milo McKinney lacked, but courage was not among them. He did not care to sail, or to fight, with a man who lacked it.

This last captain had hailed a fishing vessel, and had turned his vessel to the wind, showing the fisherman his twelve broadside guns to the smaller boat’s none. Milo McKinney’s father had owned a fishing boat. Milo had learned to sail aboard her, his only happy memories. When that last captain was gone overboard, and the fisherman sailed away, Milo McKinney was placed in the dinghy two days from land, with a jug of water, and some well wishes. It was alright, though. Milo was the lucky one.

When the gate was repaired, and the hens safe, Milo McKinney found some little things to do about the yard and garden. When darkness fell he stepped nervously, reluctantly up the sagging porch steps. He would look at fixing those steps come morning. She had not invited him to stay, but he was hoping that she would. She had invited him to supper though, so he rapped lightly on the door. When there was no answer he pushed his shaggy head inside. There was a fire in the hearth, and a bowl upon the chair beside it. Beside the bowl was a book. Milo took the seat. He ate the stew as if he was starving, and he read the words exactly the same way.

It was a long time. There were many sunsets, many books read, many thoughts expressed. They ate their eggs in the mornings, and what could be harvested from the sea. He found a place near her rock while she watched the horizon, and he read to her through warm days and nights. He found that he did not miss the rolls of the sea, nor the wicked men floating upon them. He found that it was good to have a place, a quiet place. He found it good to be needed by a woman, even a strong one. He found, over time, that it was enough to be a man.

And she? A brutal sea had pulled her love away, but just as the tides will come and go in chase of the moon, so too will men come and go upon them.

You speak with words tangled in knots,

they call it a st-t-tutter.

You speak with words as smooth as a chainsaw.

No one listens to what you have to say anymore.

They can’t understand y-y-you.

Too b-b-bad for them.

The words that blossom in your brain

flower on the screen.

Don’t you wish

you could fein muteness?

And write down your thoughts for the world to read?

But, kind of like the st-t-tutter

the words erupt out without your consent.

You feel the eyes on your lips as they

t-t-try to form the right words.

Never really works, though.

The words always seem to get

st-t-tuck in your throat.

If only you could have the voice

of the movie stars and musical geniuses on TV.

But you’ve never belonged onscreen.

You remember a t-t-time before the

st-t-tutter took over.

A time before the words came haltingly, like they were stuck,

and yet fast like a river, unable to stop.

S-p-ee-eech imped-di-diment.

Like a man walking on stilts.

Unnatural.

On paper, the st-t-tutter is irrelevent.

No one can judge you through the steady text.

Rhea Byrd yanked the hood of her raincoat over her messy curls. It was a rainy day in Burnsville, Minnesota, and Rhea was unfortunate enough to have been caught in the worst of it on her walk home from work. Hard pellets of water shot at her like seeker missiles. It was as if Mother Nature was targeting her. She heard a car roar by and looked up. On the other side of the street was a man. She tried to stop herself from looking, but her gaze kept being drawn back to the man.

"Excuse me?" she calls, finally, "Are you okay?" She crosses the street.

"I'm just fine, thanks," says the man. "And who might you be?"

"Rhea. Rhea Byrd."

"Nice to meet you, Rhea. I'm Anton."

"Hi," says Rhea breathlessly. "You don't look like you're from around here."

"Aptly noticed," says the man. "I'm just visiting." Rhea tucks a strand of loose hair behind her ear.

"What's the cause of your visit?" Rhea asks. The man chuckles.

"Just business, I'm afraid. Nothing too exciting." Rhea nods in his direction and continues down to her apartment.

Today, luckily, sleep comes easily, and she thinks no more about the man.

The next day, however, she turned on the television to see his face.

"Wanted; Anton Philipe, for a double murder. He's a naitive of Atlanta, Georgia."

A double murder?

"The victims include Skylar Perry and Rhea Byrd, both Minnesota residents."

Rhea Byrd? But that... that's my name, she thinks. I'm not dead.

She looks down at her body. Nothing. No scratch, no blood. She couldn't be dead...

"Hello, are you Rhea Byrd?" She jumps and turns to face the strange man who had just now appeared in her house.

"Who are you? How'd you get in here?"

"Calm down," he says, with a sigh. "This part is always so annoying."

"Who are you?"

"Look at your bed." She does, and sees her body, lying battered on her sheets.

"What- how-"

"You have to come with me, Rhea."

"Who are you?"

"Mortals call me Death. Now, please, come with me."

I'm lucky not to be in the next classroom over. Where the pencils are used for drawing dicks and crude symbols. Instead, I lie in the hands of a master. My life is being pressed out of me, but at least I make something beautiful with it. The life of a true artist, the shades of my graphite creating faces and flowers, brought to life by my death. I'm nearing my last days. I'm the length of the girl's thumb. Soon, I will join my brethren in the trash. But, how bad can it be, right?

It is ok to go where you go, I will tag along.

It is ok to bend to your will, I am not rigid.

It is ok to chase your dreams, mine will wait.

It is ok to be happy, I am happy too.

So long as you do not confuse love with weakness, then

I will be your Huckleberry.

“Beware, beware, be skeptical, of their smiles, their smiles, of plated gold. Deceit so natural. ’Cause a wolf in sheep’s clothing is more than a warning...”

~ Set it Off “Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing”

The caress of a smile

Around my lips

Be careful of the razor thin lips

That surround your lies

Be careful of the eyes

That pry away your soul

Be careful of the rough hands

Tearing you away from yourself

Be careful of love,

Because love is a lie.

Be careful of your weakness

Because it will be exploited

And be careful of the smiles

That judge you with liquid pity

Pity is like wine,

You get drunk on it,

But it kills you

The kind of kill that bleeds into

Intoxicating smiles

The crushing pain of smiles with bared teeth,

Sharp teeth

Bite into your happiness until

You bleed pity.

Beware pity, it’s a wild goose chase

Leading you out of your comfort zone

Taking you to the next level,

To navigate between

The true and the false

Who cares?

Is it the doctor who looks at you with the look

“You poor soul.”

Or is it the friend who laughs with you,

Even when your laugh is superficial?

Does it matter?

Beware of the

“It’ll be okay.”

Beware “I’m sorry.”

Sorry is a bandaid.

Bandaids don’t fix razor blade

Cuts in your wrist.

Nothing fixes them,

Nothing but truth and true smiles,

So rare these days.