i won't

go quietly.

not now,

not ever.

try to

take

me

away,

make

me

forget,

cut

things

off.

i will

scream.

no.

no.

NO.

you can't

convince

me with

your

nonsensical

arguments.

persuasion

is a rare

skill,

and you do

not fall into that

circle.

you're

attempting

to steal

away

all i've

ever loved,

and you

don't

expect

me

to

fight

back?

well...

you were

WRONG

Babysitting night for me,

a child of four years sits on my knee.

My grandson, Tim, resisting sleep,

who yawns real big and makes no peep,

gets read to for an hour straight,

before I decide it’s getting late.

Tim, my boy, it’s time to sleep.

Your tired eyes you should not keep

from closing tight

to block the light.

Your teeth are brushed, your pj’s on.

“You need to make the monsters gone.”

he whispered with large brown eyes wide.

Closet door is opened up, I look inside.

Just clothes, no monster here, I tried.

“He’s there” he said as though I’d lied.

I’ll fight him off, you get in bed.

Not listening, he took up a broom instead

to banish the monster from his room.

I took his hand and took the broom

and picked him up. Get into bed, I cooed.

“Not yet” he cried and then boo-hooed.

What is it now?

I thought aloud.

“I need my kangaroo from off the couch.

He has this tiny special pouch.”

Sure thing Tim, I’ll get it right away.

You just lay right there...and stay!

I leave the room to get the thing,

and when I’m back he has a string.

Where did you get that? I felt quite tried.

“I left my bed” he then replied

with a forgiving innocence in place,

upon his young and glowing face.

Just get in bed, I nearly cursed.

As I readied myself for the worst.

“Okay” he said.

and got in bed.

I sighed aloud

almost proud.

I’d gotten him to close his eyes.

I closed the door, but no surprise,

“Can I have milk and with a straw?”

He asked for more from his grandpa.

Yes my dear came my feeble reply.

I try and I try and I try, try, try.

It is no use, my job will fail.

My trying is to no avail.

I have a mind to knock him out.

There would not be a cry nor shout.

He will not go quietly,

and I could knock him out so silently,

but I must not for that feels wrong

And I must admit, I’m not that strong.

Oh wait, what is that? Is he asleep?

I cannot hear a single peep.

Oh thank the lord and thank him well.

For a second there, I was in Hell.

Goodnight Tim, my darling dear.

Now I shall go and have a beer.

I babysit (not a grandparent though; just 15 yrs old) and this is a constant struggle. It’s quite comical at times.

You can drag me down

Let my face hit the dirt

Has my wounds ooze with blood

Causing a flood of hurt

You can break me

Make me feel worthless with your words

Has my mind replays the horrors

Of all that I’ve heard

And though I can’t promise you much

I can promise you one thing

I will not go quietly

I will fight, a Phoenix lives inside of me.

~ “ I will not die peacefully. You will remember my screams”

We write for a voice

To sing for the mother who cradles her babe

To cry with the pain of a newborn

To wonder and laugh like children again.

We write so as to never bury

our humanity between sheets of

perfomative division

to understand the crimes you or I

could have would have committed.

We write to defend and honour

The screams of those whose freedom whose love whose lives

were are being will be stolen

We write for the lovers,

for the sisters and brothers and the women

and the wxmen and wimmin and the men and the mxn.

for the whispers of comfort

for the voice of reason

for the delight and amusement of a moment

We write so that the way you looked that night

with the starlight in your eyes

will be recorded and accounted and reminded.

We write for compassion, we write for love

we write for a fight, we write for pain

for anger for rights for justice.

We write to remember,

We write to forget,

We write because we will not go quietly.

listen to me

I won’t go quietly

I’ll slam doors

and open windows

cause explosions

and leave the kettle in the stove

I’ll make sure you know

I’m leaving

I’ll give you

one last chance to

stop me

cause once I go

I’m gone

and you’ll have lost me

forever

I’ll try to be considerate,

think of others,

but we have a tungstan-carbide drill.

we have walls that need breaking,

and stuff to hammer.

so, buddy, sorry about the noise,

but we got to earn a living.

if someday , you’ll want revenge,

or just restitution,

then, you’ll make some noise.

I’ll be happy to oblige.

we have all the tools and instruments,

we are very thoughtful, and prepared.

those jackhammers,

will do the work best,

keep the whole city up,

trust me.

but, when that good night comes,

I'll go quietly,

I feel no rage, and in this heat,

only a headache.

Guilty. How could the jury not convict them? The kid was barely a month old. So small, so fragile, so pale in the tiny mahogany box with the cross on it. There wasn't one dry eye. Now that the case was over, the baby could rest. The coroner had what she needed. It was clearly a homicide. The attackers hadn't planned on the baby fighting back. The baby's fingernails had tissue and blood under them from its instinctive nature to fight. It had been smothered, but its throat and mouth made it clear that the baby had screamed. All evidence shoeed tgst the baby had hollered, flailed, kicked, scratched, and fought for its life. Someone still extinguished it, and they both would see their own grisly end now, but even as an infant, the kid refused to go down silently.

″Shut up.” A voice says sharp, a woman. And Flora should. She doesn’t know where she is, it’s dark, and she can’t see anything. There’s panic lodged in her chest, pain aching where they bruised her when they dragged here, into this place and her chances of living are better if she stays silent, but—there’s wetness on her fingers, stones tangled her hair, and she can hear them, the distant roar of oceans, closer, a bright buzz of laughter like sunlight and something else, a tremble, not-human, humming under her skin and—

Flora screams, louder, sound tearing from deep inside, struggles, kicking and tugging, and pulling on the shackles on her wrists and ankles. 

“Did you not hear me?” The woman says, irritated. Hears heavy footsteps coming towards and her heart is pulsing loud in fear but Flora doesn’t stop, raises her voice louder and louder, throat sore, even as a hand presses on her, so cold, making her flinch and nails curl, sharp, on her pulse point—no matter what, she keeps fighting. It’s all she has left. 

“Fine.” The woman says, darkly. “I will just make you then.” And nails dig into her skin, and Flora sees—a flash of something with teeth, glimpse of eyes that burns and Flora finds herself terrified, unable to breathe—

and at that moment, terror clawing inside her lungs, there’s a press of warmth, light and—

Do not fear They laugh, bright. And everything stops—the world goes deathly quiet and dark—’till abruptly, in a gust of wind, there’s noise everywhere, giggles, ocean waves, bell chimes, thunder, glass and loudest, laughter.

(The woman didn’t stand a chance.)