I'd love to die,

But my body just won't let me.

It's been two heart attacks,

One brain tumor,

And four rounds of chemo.

But here I am.

Breathing...

Ticking...

Lasting...

For at least another day or so.

I'm a medical marvel, they say.

What kind of miracle takes a dozen pills a day?

It'd be better for everyone if I just said goodbye,

Ended it once and for all.

No more pain,

No more surgeries,

No more transfusions.

Just darkness...quiet...peace.

Forever.

But will heaven still accept me if I quit before my time is up?

I’d love to whisper with soft strokes

your lips on my ears telling me

exactly what you want to tame

heated madness of smoky languid look

but my husband just came home

so I must fantasize your slippery fingers

tongue moving, silently stirring

supple whimpers of wetness

creamy bliss of wanderlust pleasures

melting into your nirvana skin, arching

and flipping like morning pancakes

exploring our globes in wanderlust

milky strokes in desire’s valley

climbing to grasp erotic prize.

I'd love to trade dentures with you but my dentures just won't fit your mouth! Let's face it Gertrude. You have a big mouth. When God handed out teeth, you thought He said "feet" and you've been sticking them in your mouth ever since. Goodness gracious, Gertrude, we've been friends for over seventy years now. We've worn each other's clothes and jewelry. We've nearly even stolen each other's husband from time to time. I love you with all my heart but I have to draw the line when it comes to dentures!

I’d love to be a princess, but my allergy to tiaras just ruins it every time.

I’m sure I’m not the only one afflicted by this malady, but for some reason people don’t, or can’t talk about it. I understand that – I do. It took me 37 years, hundreds of attacks, and 10 years as a card carrying member of Tiara Allergies Anonymous to build up enough courage to speak out.

I realize now that princes my age are few and far between. I owe it to every young lady out there waiting on her knight in shining armor to let her know. Not finding a prince might not be her fault (because, let’s face it, none of us ever want to admit there might be something challenging about us when it comes to finding true love.)

It always worked like this. There would be a prince. He didn’t have to propose, ask me on a date, or even recognize I was in the same room with him.

Of course, he always found out rather quickly because as soon as it would come to my attention there was a prince in the room, fantasy hormones kicked into overdrive. Before he completed his official room scan to determine if there were any eligible or likely princesses to be courted, my imagination had us betrothed.

Things would have been fine if my imagination stopped there. But it didn’t.

Within seconds of betrothal we would be standing before whoever marries royalty (that part was always a bit fuzzy for me), decked in full-fledged raiment of prince and princess (tiara included) poised to exchange “I do’s”.

That was when my troubles always began.

Some people sneeze or get itchy and runny eyes when they have an allergy. Some break out in rash or worse, develop hives. If only I had been so lucky.

No, when my tiara allergy kicked in, the transformation from eager princess wanna-be to cutthroat vixen cougar birthed a side of me that would make a sailor blush. Before that unsuspecting prince could say ‘jack-rabbit’, I was ON him, right up in his business, ready to be making babies.

You can see why this created problems, given royal protocols and all. Sigh.

I’ve been told there is no cure, but writing about it is sure good therapy.

Wow. I don’t even know where this came from. Hopefully it brings a grin. Full disclosure: to the best of my knowledge there is no such thing as a tiara allergy and I’ve never been within a thousand yards of what the world deems royalty. But when it comes to princes – I met mine in HS and we’ll be celebrating 37 years of married bliss next month, so I guess things worked OK.

"I'd love to follow my fellow people's life map, but my mind and heart just ever pull and lead me on a different path."

The older ancient elves remind us all that every elf needs to follow the way of Arwvoj. That is being a guide to spirits which are lost and troubled. We help them find their way into the light, or a safe place of rest. Later they'll be received by former past loved ones in heaven.

I've talked with my Parents. They seem to think that I'm going through a phase. I wish they understood that I want to go on a journey, & explore further lands beyond our elvian homeland.

If my Pa 'n' Ma won't listen to me, then I'll deifinitely seek aid from my spirit guide, trainer & friend. Shamlok, the best teacher our people have had since my Pa retired.

I've known Shamlok from his spiritual guiding training days. I was only a young child then- always watching from the sidelines. My dream then was to someday be like my Pa, and also became one of the greatest spirit guide(s).

Shamlok had noticed the change of heart in me. My mind wasn't fully present in the moment. All I thought about daily was what life was like away from home. I wanted to meet other creatures and beings....fairies, goblins, minotaurs, sorcerers, dragons, mermaids, dwarves, trolls, if I was lucky even humans.

Shamlok: Young Master Druth. What seems to be drowning your heart and mind in trouble?

Druth: Greetings O Grand Master Shamlok. (Sighs and shakes his head) I don't know what to do. On the one hand my feet are deeply rooted here. While on the other hand, I want to discover and explore what's beyond from home.

Shamlok: O, wise, mighty and strong tecaher, and friend. You're able to do anything that you set your mind and heart to. If it's our way that you wish to not change, don't worry. You are not changing it at all. In fact wherever you go, follow it and never forget it.

Druth: (Bows head) Thank you so much dear wise, mighty and string friend, and teacher.

Shamlok: May the spirits of the ancient ones be with you and guide you on your journey.

Druth Faerwol heads to his parents home. His Pa gives his heir and student a nod. Druth nods in return. Druth's Ma pulls her son towards her & gives him a tight squeeze. He bids them farewell. His Ma sobs, as her eyes follow her child's movement untill his out of sight. She waits to see if he returns before sunset.

The sun's bright light vanishes beyond the horizon. Druth isn't coming back home right now. There's no turning back for him. He is on a journey of discovery of what lies beyond the elvian forest.

Please don't ask for an explanation!

I'd love to expand, buy my thought just shrank. It went and hid within the amygdala, having become conscious of its own folly, and fearful of everlasting disrepute in the aftermath. Now, it scampers there beneath the folds, scratches, and whimpers: Take me back!

"I'd love to help you plant your vegetable garden, but my green thumb just turned black," I informed my neighbor regretfully.

Seriously, my thumb turned black, or more specifically some lovely shades of black, blue, purple, green, and yellow. You see, I was trying to put together an apiary in my backyard, but the bees couldn't seem to wait until I was done to molest me. As a result, I wasn't paying close enough attention to the hammer while I was driving in the nails, and I ended up smashing my thumb against the wood. I said a lot of words that my mother tried to make sure I didn't learn when I was a kid, and the whole digit swelled up within a few seconds. Multiple ice packs, several asprins, and a healthy slug of whisky later, I was grumbling and grousing around the yard, kicking the planks of the partially built structure.

Why was I building an apiary? I'm so glad you asked. It was because of my neighbor, the one that asked me for help. Nasty old crone by the name of Ms. Betts. Single, never married, no kids. I think she had a cat once, but it ran away. Not at all surprising. She'd spend her days sitting on her porch yelling at the kids whizzing by on their bikes or coming to her gate to snatch a passing adult and recounting her very long list of medical conditions. It got so that people would deliberately cross the street several houses before hers just to avoid getting in her clutches. Living next door to her, it wasn't so easy to avoid her daily visits, and I desperately needed some relief.

Well, as it turns out, one of her medical conditions is a severe allergy to bee stings. If I had an apiary, I knew my bees would love to pollinate her garden, especially since it wouldn't be a long flight between it and their home in my back yard. The kindest thing I could do, I reasoned, was to help out my dear neighbor by building a structure to house those wonderful bees. And, as an added bonus, they would keep Ms. Betts inside her house and away from the rest of the neighborhood. But now my thumb was all kinds of colorful puffiness, and building my apiary would have to wait, probably longer than my tolerance for Ms. Betts' chatter.

I wonder - does anyone rent them out for the season?

I'd love to fly high, but my wing just broke! 

My eyes are laden with tears.

Neither age nor injury did this to me.

The foe lurks inside of me, hidden.

I go to the wise men. I go to the priest.

They poke and they prompt and they pray.

But no one, save I, can tame the wild beast.

So floundering aground I remain.

Please no! My heart cries. I'm longing to fly.

And turn circles 'round treetops and clouds.

But as long as my head says I can't, then I won't.

And I'll die in my cage of denial.

I'd love to move

Forward

But my foot

Just fell

Asleep

Guess my 

Circulation

Is yelling

At my heart

Wake up

Move

Wake up

So I trudge on

Slowly

At first

Then picking up

Speed

And my daughter

Watches

She sees all

Weakness

Fallibilities

Sometimes strength

And always

Undeniable

Love

I'd love to make it home but my instruments just went black. All readings gone - engine failure imminent. I was dead in the water, but still breathing.

I kicked the main console and swore to the heavens. Jack was going to have my hide for this; if I ever made it back alive.

I glanced at my watch. Old analog - a gift from my father before he died - at least one thing was still working. But it was 5:53pm and counting. Sunset was closing in, and once it went dark there'd be no hope of a rescue until dawn. No one goes out on the sea after dark. No one was willing to risk it. But I'd been stupid, thought I could make it in time. Hell of a time to be wrong.

Hurrying to the emergency supply box, I threw the lid off and riffled through bandages and flares, and first aid gear, to find the dated radio at the bottom. It weighed at least a kilo. I mentally crossed everything that the damn thing would work.

Static, then a few clicks, before dying out with a bang. Something white and hot began to ooze out of the back compartment. Disgusted, I dropped the radio and wiped my hands on my shorts. I checked the time - 5:59pm. Sunset was due at 6:01pm, and it was never late.

The silence was deafening, pressing in on my ears as I strained to hear the first signs that they were coming. I could hear my own panicked heartbeat pounding against my rib-cage, ready to burst. My breath was anxious and impatient.

Then I heard it, so sudden, and closer than I had been expecting. Not more than 100 meters away at the most. That spine chilling caterwaul. Dread seeped into every crevice of my body. The fear that gripped me made me feel sick to the stomach. I felt dizzy, sweaty and weak at the knees. I wasn't ready to die.

There it was again. The moan of the dead. The souls of all sailors lost at sea. I knew they would come. It was only a matter of time. Come for me like they'd come for the others. To take me back to the sea. I checked the time.

A sudden thud against to side of my craft knocked me off balance, and I let out a small scream.

They were here.