I believe it was the summer of '78, or possibly '79. Please humor my looseness around such details, as I think we can all agree that either one of those summers would have been a long, long time ago.

Anyways, when I pulled in from work that day there was a girl sitting on the curb in front of my building; a melancholy looking girl with her chin cupped in her palms, her elbows propped up on her closed knees, and her toes pointed disjointedly inwards. I’d seen the girl a couple of times in the past week or so, coming or going from the apartment across the hall from mine, an apartment where at least three rowdy young guys lived along with their mean-assed Pit Bull dog, although truthfully it was hard to say exactly how many lived there, as there were generally a slew of kids hanging around that apartment, to recently include this girl who was currently perched on the curb right where I liked to park. Having just turned twenty-two and trying to be beyond all of the kid-crap drama that was forever going on over there I did my best not to pay these punk neighbors of mine any mind, though most times that was hard, as they were so loud and destructive on the nights they stayed home that it had crossed my mind more than once to go over and teach them some manners, but like I said… there were three of them and a Pit Bull dog. So while I intentionally ignored the guys living over there, I had (as any guy without attachments is prone to do) noticed the girl.

I wasn’t dating much back then, not seriously anyways, as I was no catch. I fully understood that I needed a year or two of polishing before any potential value could ever shine through the cheap, pawn shop veneer I was wearing. I’d just broken away from my own rowdy “friends” and was doing (strictly by my own standards) pretty well on my own; by that I mean that work was going well enough to keep the lights and water running, there was a little something in the fridge besides beer, and the truck started most mornings. Not to say that everything was great, as the complex I was living in was shit, my job was still lower level (although I was working hard at displaying the proper behaviors required to change that), and that damned truck still only ran some of the time. But the thing was, I had realized at this stage in life that I was different than my old buddies, and I had decided to do something about it. I was in the process of civilizing myself. I’d been instinctually aware through my party years that I was different, though I'd admittedly put in extra effort in trying to fit in. My “friends” had sensed it too I think, and had shielded me from any really bad trouble, understanding that I would "go good" someday and that I might be of some value to them when I did. So there at the end, while the rowdies I’d hung around since high school were still rebelling against the system, that is to say they were pushing back against a traditional life and it’s values, I had become more of a reluctant observer to their underworld schemes and dealings then I was a bona fide participant, a Jane Goodall if you will; an outsider who was accepted amongst the beasts so long as I stayed on my rock and didn’t make any unexpected motions… so long as I didn’t rock their boats, so to speak.

The girl stood up from the curb as my truck veered into it's spot, but she didn’t move away, forcing me into a short and sudden pull-up, revealing my monetary failings as well as the danger of her chosen seat through a nasty squeal from over-worn brake pads. Jamming the shifter into park and rolling up the window I gathered my things together and climbed out, eager to find out what her “deal” was, though I half-ways expected to find a drugged out glaze to her eyes along with a dim-witted expression. But surprisingly, upon closer inspection she appeared to be sober and bright enough, if unemotional.

"You all right?” I asked her.

She nodded in the affirmative, her bored expression unchanging. Still, this was a pretty shit neighborhood we were in, what with low-income housing directly across one street and an Air Force base, runway and all, on the opposite side, so it rubbed against my grain to leave her out here alone. It was no place for a young woman, and by young I mean that she looked to be seventeen, or maybe even sixteen (if not younger), it's always so hard to tell with girls that age. Regardless she was far too young to be hanging around outside in this neighborhood with darkness approaching. ”You got someplace to go?”

I took her frown as a “no.”

"Those punks ditch you?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

Stupid kid. Of course they had, once they’d had their fun with her and she became nothing but a drain on their slim resources.

"Can I take you somewhere? Home, maybe?”

She only shrugged. Again, I had to accept her unhappy expression as a “no.”

“All right, then.” I resigned. “But listen, if you need anything I’m right up there.” I pointed to my apartment, though I suspected she knew which one was mine, just as I suspected she’d known which parking spot was mine. While it is true that a guy will generally notice a girl, I wasn’t so naive as to think that a girl doesn’t notice things, too.

She sat back down on the curb when I reluctantly headed up, the gentleman in me feeling sufficiently rotten about leaving her there. I figured maybe those clowns across the hall would come back soon? But after changing my shirt and popping a cold one, a quick glance out the window revealed that she was still there.

"Shit!" Now you see, don’t you? This type of situation was exactly why I never could pull-off the “low-life scoundrel bit” that my rougher friends played-off of so well. It was such an easy thing for them to do, as they truly didn’t give a shit about anyone or anything. But me? I was cursed with a fucking heart, so against my better judgement I grabbed the truck keys and headed back down… the dumbass cavalry to the fucking rescue.

"I’m going for a burger. You hungry?” Her eyes widened at that. She pushed herself up from the curb and headed wordlessly towards the passenger-side door, leaving me to suppose that she was hungry. In any case she was thin enough that she should be hungry, even if she wasn’t.

The place the truck squealed to a stop in front of wasn’t much, an old beer joint two blocks off the beach with sandy floors, few customers, and an old-timey jukebox. While it wasn’t much to look at, what the place did have was a wonderful deep-water, driftwood smell that I loved, plus the food was cheap and the beers were cold, making it my kind of place. I worried about her age when I ordered two, but the guy didn’t ask her, and I didn’t either. She scarfed her food down before I was half done with mine.

“I guess you were hungry, huh?” I said it jokingly and was rewarded with a smile, so I slid the rest of my fries over for her to start in on, scowling as she dipped out grotesque amounts of ketchup to lube them up with before swallowing them down whole.

”Not a beer drinker?” She hadn’t touched hers. She shrugged again in the negative, still not offering up a single word despite my having bought her dinner and given her half of mine. In fact, she’d been so quiet I was beginning to wonder if there was something wrong with her… you know, upstairs I mean?

Reaching for her beer, I waited a short second for an objection which never came before tipping it back myself.

When I came out of the restroom a bit later she was standing at the jukebox reading through the song list, so I pulled what little change there was from my pocket for her as I passed. The cold beer I’d ordered was waiting on the table, so I sat down to give her a more critical examination while she agonized over the unfamiliar musical selections the old-timeu jukebox offered her. She was somewhat tall as girls go, her height flexing her into a seductive, back-arching forward lean over the machine as she worked out the smallish print. Long, black hair framed high cheeks which squinted her eyes, cat-like. The feet and ankles beneath the long, blue skirt she wore were bare, dirt stained, and were currently hiked up onto their tip-toes, accentuating well-toned muscles in her calves. Above the skirt she wore a lacy white tube top which wrapped itself tightly around her torso at tit level, leaving her midriff and shoulders bare, which while tanned with sun were not the blistery dark hue that most of the beach girls around here strove to acquire. She was pretty though, if obviously young… much too young to risk it, unfortunately. Unfortunately, that is, if a guy considered himself half-ways wise. My old buddies now, they wouldn't have given her age a thought, nor would those guys in the apartment across the hall, but fuck me if I didn't consider it. Yet, even as I watched she began swaying along to her first chosen tune; Tommy James’ “Crimson and Clover,” a song I knew to be the very first, original power ballad. “How is it,” I contemplated as I watched her, “that every girl knows how best to move to any and every song?”

“Ah... now I don’t hardly know her

But I think I could love her

Crimson and Clover”

I was pleasantly surprised by the selection. It was not the song I expected from an underaged beach girl just escaped from a hell house full of freaky-haired, drugged-up punk rockers.

So it was with mixed emotions that I drove back from the burger joint that night. The devil on the one shoulder was hoping the lights were still out next door and the wild boys remained away, while a wiser devil silently prayed on my other shoulder for the loud music and fairy-dust smoke that typically poured out from their opened window when they were home, so that I might be rid of my new, underaged charge. And while I do generally listen to my better devil, I must admit that this time I was quite thrilled to see that the tell-tale window was agreeably dark and quiet, leaving the evening vastly more interesting. I mean, who really likes going in for the night alone?

Neither of us made a move to exit the truck when the harsh squeal of worn brakes finally brought us to a lilting stop in its usual, oil stained spot. Both of us sat staring instead, our faces tilted upwards at my neighbors’ blackened window, the silence between us becoming more awkward the longer we sat.

“They aren’t back.” The words were a feeler more than anything else, sent out to test her waters.

"Good.” It was the first word she’d spoken, and it gave me confidence.

"You want to come up, then?”

Without a word she opened the door and climbed out, slamming it to behind her. I had to suppose that she did.

When I flipped on the light switch there wasn’t much for her to see; an old, cloth upholstered sofa, a scratch-and-dent coffee table, a sagging Lazy-Boy, the walls themselves bare but for a dart board on the far one and a framed print of James Dean on another... you know the photo, that shot of him in the red jacket with the “devil-may-care” smile? When I emerged from the tiny kitchen with a cold beer I noticed that her eyes were rested hopefully on the guitar in the far corner.

“Do you play?” She asked me.

“Not very well.”

“Play something? For me?” She took on an even more youthful, wide-eyed expression as she clapped her hands in a cute, kid-like gesture as she said it. “Please?”

Any modesty in me being false I did play after knocking it free of dust and giving it a necessary tuning, beginning with Tommy James’, “Crimson and Clover,” a song I believed she would appreciate.

“Hey!” She leaned in enthusiastically after the first line. “The song from the jukebox?”

"You don’t know it?” I asked her.

"No!" The girl who had hardly spoken the entire evening actually laughed aloud at that, her whole demeanor seeming to change at the prospects offered by the guitar, her face and eyes lighting up brightly at my puzzled expression. And I should probably have expected the confession which followed, though I somehow didn’t. “I didn’t know any of the songs on that old machine. I chose that one because of the title. It made me think of destiny.” Her cheeks blushed pink as she said it. The “Crimson” part felt like love, and the "Clover" part like luck.”

"Yep,” I kept the thought to myself, the intelligence in her snap interpretation surprising me. “This girl is definitely going lead me into trouble.”

But sensing that her fascination stemmed from the guitar itself rather than from my playing and singing I offered it over to her, resting it properly across her thighs. Guiding her one hand to the proper fret I molded a “G” out of her fingers and then showed her a simple strum pattern with the other. After some expected fumblings a clear enough chord soon rang out, producing an excited and surprised smile along with it, so we copied the same procedure with a “C” chord, and then a “D”. After an hour she was, if rather slowly and with some difficulty, managing to change the fingerings from G, to C, to D on her own. As she did so, I ever so slowly worded along, hardly what you’d even call singing:

“Ahhh, now I don’t hardly know her…”

I waited patiently through the long pause as she fumbled with the fingerings.

“But I think I could love her.”

Another pause, followed by a careful strum.

“Crimson and clover.”

Pause... and strum.

“Ahhh, when she comes walkin' over….”

Wanting to get the rhythm right she tried going faster, both of us giggling along to her many mistakes, but that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? When learning to play? Trying to go faster, to make the notes happen in tempo, the song itself forcing practice, and improvement? Satisfied at seeing her face scrunched in concentration as she practiced I retrieved still another beer from the refrigerator, staggering a bit as I went, the day’s long hours telling on me. I started back into the little living room, but changed my mind when I saw her in there so hard at her work.

"Hey, I’m gonna crash. Make yourself at home. You can play as long as you like. It won't bother me.” I stopped myself short of offering the other side of the bed when she was ready, figuring that she would return across the hall when, and if, her friends came home. So beer in hand I headed to the back bedroom, where I kicked off my boots before dropping across the bed, jeans and all. Yet from somewhere in my addled dreams the sounds of slow-changing and mis-fingered chords drifted into my consciousness, producing upon my inebriated countenance a lazy, lingering smile.

When I woke it was to morning's soft, gray light through the window slats, and to those same, tentatively changing chord progressions which had drifted in from the other room the night before, G to C to D and back, along with the hazy recollection of a heaviness in the bed beside me, and of what some might consider to be a chastisement coming to me through my alcoholic fog, “you drink too much.”

“Yea.”

And that was all.

But today was Sunday, my one day off, and I wasn’t one to waste it lying around, so after a short stint in the bathroom I made a grandiose entrance in knee-length, Hawaiian-print trunks and a clean, white t-shirt. She did not stop practicing, nor did she smile at my attire. It seemed rude, but it also seemed like her regular disposition, so I let it slide.

"It's sounding better." I said, and meant it. With that, I continued on down to my truck, where I pulled the refurbished pads I'd bought from behind the seat and started removing tires to change them out. Without bothering to come down the girl raised the window and called down from above.

"Hey? What are you doing?”

"I’m adjusting the brakes.” I called back without looking up.

"Duh! I can see that. Why?”

"So the truck will stop.”

"That’s not what I meant. Why now? It’s barely light outside on Sunday morning! Who does something like that at this hour?”

"We can’t hardly go to the beach and to breakfast unless I get them changed out, can we?”

"Ugh…I don’t really wanna go to the beach.”

"You can bring the guitar.”

"Oh, cool! Ok then!”

”Get yourself a shower while I finish here.”

”I don’t need a shower. I’ll hop in the ocean.”

”It wasn’t a question. If you want breakfast, take a shower.”

“You don’t have to be mean.” She sniffed her armpit as she said it. “I’m not that bad… yet." She started to slide the window down, but stopped herself. "Say!" Her curiosity finally getting the best of her. "What’s your name, anyways?”

”It's Huck.”

”Alrighty then, Huck! I’m Joanie. Let's have a breakfast date!“

It was still early yet for tourists when we got there. The waterfront was thankfully quiet but for breaking waves and shrieking gulls. Her skin had lost its flush from the shower, but her hair remained damp. I propped the tailgate down for a seat, which we did, and with the guitar positioned across her lap we watched as the red-trunked life guards pried row upon row of tourist umbrellas into the soft sand. I felt a bit sorry for her in her thin clothes, as the breeze was cool enough off the water yet to pimple her arms and quiver her bottom lip.

“How long will you be?” She asked.

”About an hour. I’ll run down the beach a couple of miles, and then swim back.”

”Why?”

”Because it feels good.”

“Ugh.” Her expression showed that she wasn’t buying it. Her eyes rolled skeptically away from me before dropping back down to the strings where they could once again assist in her uncoordinated fingerings; G-to-C-to-D. But before I left her I took time to show her the A and G minor chords. She was progressing quickly, and if she could get the new chords down by the time I got back I would begin her on that old Roger Miller tune:

“Trailer for sale or rent.

Rooms to let, fifty cents.

No phone, no pool, no pets…

I ain’t got no cigarettes.”

She would like that one, “King of the Road,” It was another 60’s oldie, but it was a fun one that was easy to play.

The sun was doing good work by the time I got back. Joanie’s shivering had stopped, and she had her new chords down, just as I‘d thought she would. ”But my fingertips are starting to hurt.” She complained.

”Yea. That happens at first. They’ll callous up pretty quick, though.”

Stopping at a McDonald’s Joanie wolfed down an Egg McMuffin as quickly as she had last night’s burger.

”Do you have some more things somewhere? Clothes, and what not?” I asked her as she ate.

She shook her head no.

”Not even shoes?”

She didn’t bother responding.

Here was a problem. I certainly couldn’t afford to outfit her. Hell, I could barely take care of myself. "If you're going to hang around with me we’re going to have to find you a job.”

She scowled at that, grabbing at the half-a sausage biscuit I’d left lying on it’s wrapper.

”Where do you live, then? Where’s home?” To which she only shrugged her shoulders.

Not knowing what else to do, I supposed I had no choice but to keep her around, which was secretly ok by me.

There was no one else in the laundromat this early, and so to add her few clothes to my weekly load Joanie pulled an oversized t-shirt of mine overtop of her own clothes before sliding the skirt, and then her top down over hips lean enough to offer little impediment, managing to remove them from under the t-shirt without giving miscreant me even a single little peek of forbidden skin. When I mentioned my disappointment she turned playfully around and, with her back arching her buttocks towards me she used both hands to flip the bottom of the t-shirt up, rewarding me with a shapely half-moon before plopping down in one of the plastic chairs, naked but for my t-shirt. And then, as usual, she turned her attention from me and picked up the guitar, resting it atop her lanky and naked legs.

“That washing machine is pounding out a pretty steady beat,” I offered helpfully. “Why don’t you try to keep time to it, like it‘s a bass drum.” So she did, keeping up with the tempo pretty well for just her second day playing. Thinking back, I tried to remember how well I was playing on my second day? The recollections were fuzzy, but I knew my improvements had not come this quickly, and I had been nearly as obsessed with the guitar back then as she was now… nearly.

Leaving her and the guitar to guard the laundry for a moment I crossed the street to a quick mart and returned with a six pack in hand, earning myself one of those curled-nose side looks that a girl will give when something metaphorically smells bad around them. But hey, my thirst was none of her concern.

”What?” I asked in response to her obvious displeasure.

”It’s not even nine o’clock yet.” She scolded me.

”No?” Pretending to be wearing a watch, I looked down at my wrist. “No, it surely isn’t,” I confirmed before ripping a frosty can from its plastic holder. I held the can out spitefully for her to witness as I popped the tab and took a long pull from it whilst simultaneously pulling my other purchase from the back of my shorts where I’d hidden it. I held my "surprise" out to her as a peace offering… a pair of cheap, pink flip-flops. While these did not exactly earn me a pass, they did melt away the tenseness that had appeared in her strumming. Bingo… chalk a point up for the beer guy.

But more importantly she was gaining confidence in her playing, singing along now as she played, and I liked hearing it. She had a good voice, one that managed to hit its pitches even though they emerged a bit blustery and poorly shaped, her voice being untrained and unrefined. “When we get home,” I thought to myself, “I will teach her how to push the air up from her abdomen, rather than singing strictly through her throat.”

“… when we get home?” Funny, that. It was the first time since moving into that shitty apartment that I’d thought of it as “home”.

After our many errands were done she was holding the stairwell door for me and my two-handed load when one of those neighbor kids ran into us on his way out, one of those guys from that apartment across the hall. The half-starved, spiked-hair punk was almost comical in his fake leather pants and worn combat boots. He laughed when he saw us, but it was not a happy laugh.

“Joanie! I see you’ve found a new landing spot already! You didn’t have to go far to find one either, did you? Huh? Right across the fucking hallway?” He turned his eyes to me. “Hey dude? Did she give you the crabs yet? She gave me the fucking crabs! Ha, ha!” His eyes returned to her. “Fucking bitch!” Pushing between us the asshole was gone before I could even set the laundry basket down.

I’ll give her kudos for not crying. Most girls would have cried in that situation, I think. I set a goal to help her shake it off, but I didn’t have a lot of experience with helping girls cycle through their emotions. “Fuck that guy.“ I said. “I shouldn’t have let that happen.”

"No. He’s right. I did give him the crabs. Something was wrong down there, but I didn’t know what. Everything he said was true.”

"Yea? Well, fuck him anyways. He still didn’t have to be such an asshole.”

"I thought I loved him.”

"That guy?”

"I know. Funny, right?” Only now she was crying. “I hate myself for it, but I did. I don’t even know how I got the fucking crabs. There wasn’t anyone else.”

"If you climbed into that guy’s bed, then that’s probably where you got them.”

"Ugh… you think?”

"Yea, I think.”

I thought then about the weight I’d felt in the bed beside me the previous night. I understood the obvious danger in the moment, but the question on my mind needed to be asked. “You don’t still have them, do you?”

"No. I swiped some shit from the drugstore.”

“Oh?”

"Yea. And I shaved it.”

Shrugging the unsavory comment off, I headed up the stairs. Guitar in tow Joanie followed me up, her new flip-flops echoing loudly through the stairwell as they slapped against the souls of feet which were at least less dirty today than they had been yesterday, though they were still not altogether clean.

I woke up much later sprawled within the arms of the Lazy Boy, empty beer cans piled on the floor beside me. The room was dark but for an incandescent glow through the doorway from the kitchen stove light. She was on the edge of the couch, Joanie was, quietly humming along to a new chord pattern, one of her own, a hauntingly melodic tune, though Joanie occasionally stopped her humming in time to mouth some indistinguishable words, piecing in the lyrics to her own song.

Too drunk to listen, I got up and staggered down the hallway to bed, though I was not yet asleep when I felt her climb in behind me, her hand settling on my arm in the darkness as she whispered, “Thank you, Huck… for everything.”

We slept there together, her smaller frame spooned warmly and softly against mine despite the thin layers of clothing which along with my gentlemanly disposition separated us sexually as effectually as any olden day “bundling bag” could have. And she was still there in the morning, beside me. I awoke before the alarm, lying there a good while so that I could enjoy the comfort of her body snuggled-up to mine. These moments were rare for me these days... but someday? Yes, perhaps someday I would have someone beside me like this every morning to give purpose to the coming day?

But not now.

Even still, I could allow myself this innocent moment, could I not? Though this particular girl could not be mine? It was cruel, wasn’t it? How propriety had long since declared her too young for the likes of me, even though she was plenty old enough for some other, more rotten scoundrel?

And so, instead of rolling over and taking her suggestively offered comforts, I rolled the other way; away from pleasure and into the lot of the “good man”… his lot being another cold, hard work week.

And though I hadn’t taken her during the night before, she was surprisingly still there in the apartment at Monday’s end, perched on the edge of the sofa as always. Only she wasn’t playing the familiar chords I had taught her. She was playing something new, a two stringed, stretched-finger blues riff on the lower-toned strings that I had not yet taught her. And if I had not shown her that, then it was left to wonder who had?

Fuck, I needed a beer. I hadn’t wanted to love her. I hadn’t intended to make love to her. But sometimes things happen to a man that he doesn’t intend, and sometimes it is the woman who makes the man’s mind. That is how it went with young Joanie and me. that last night together.

And that is pretty much the end, but for the memories of it all, and the "Afterwards."

Afterwords

She stayed that last night, Joanie did, though there was little beer drinking done, and no sleeping. We broke every statutory law there is, committing our crimes on her terms, rather than mine. She pleasured me over and over again in what I can only assume was some sort of raunchy “thank you” for the lessons, the meals, the place to crash and the guitar (which, like her, walked out of my life forever that next morning, although I later saw them both together on an album cover). It seems that she’d set a goal to keep me awake and sober that night, and one thing about Joanie Jettbaum, that kid was relentless once she’d set her mind on a goal, as every time I reached for a beer that night she reached for me (or I should say she reached for a specific part of me), setting lascivious things in motion all over again. I also think it’s safe to say that, being young as she was, she sure knew what to do with it too, once she’d grabbed hold, but then, the little Joanie I knew never did care much about her bad reputation. It shames me somewhat to say that the lessons learned that night were mostly learned by me, though I was appreciative of the knowledge. It had been years since I’d remained as sober as I did through that night, and it would be more years until I would be so again.

It seemed that those punks across the hall had heard her practicing through our paper thin walls, and had liked what they heard, even though I still hadn’t had time to work with her on her voice. So they sent her old boyfriend Thommy, their drummer, over to knock on the door while I was away at work, inviting her to come out on the road with them. Thommy was an asshole, sure enough, and he treated her like shit, but while poor Joanie (who later made some ever-so slight adjustments to her name) hated herself for loving him, she still, for whatever reason, chose his rock-n-roll fantasy over the “wife and family” ambitions of mine. Looked back on, I cannot blame her for it. It is the nature of her gender, after all. A woman always will go with the sleaze bag given a choice, proving true the old adage that, “women respect gentlemen, but sleep with cads.” And besides, her youthful inexperience with life at that time must be kept in mind. Whatever her reasoning was, it worked out well for us both, proving that we were not meant to be, however well our fit.

Amazingly, they made it to some small degree of success in the tough world of music, that little band of black hearts across the hall. I actually bought their first album when it came out on cassette tape, for nostalgia’s sake only mind you, as by that time I was already a happily married man, married to a good woman who did care about her reputation, though she was still, in all her goodness, able to teach me some things that Joanie hadn’t.

But sometimes when I’m alone in my fancy new truck I’ll submit to those guilty pleasures and forbidden memories of yesterday, popping the old tape into the player and cranking it up loud, eagerly fast-forwarding ahead to my favorite song:

”Yea… well I’m not such a sweet thing

And I’d do everything

Such a beautiful feeling

Crimson and Clover

Over and over…”

... and over, and over.

Too Much Sax and Violins (at least that is what I think she said)

December 25, 2024

I arose and went to the bar. Another took my place. It was his turn. A third, then a fourth, would take over while I was resting. It was the plan all along for she wanted it that way.

She begged for it to be that way.

I am getting too old for this. I look at the others and realize I have at least twenty years on each of them. While I may have the styles and techniques perfected, sheer physical endurance is what the others possess. I need to rest more frequently than I did before. It takes time to recover. The scotch I am holding is not helping, but it does taste good.

I figure I have nearly an hour before she calls my number. By then, she will want a pair, possibly three of a kind to perform. The fourth will make eye contact, permitting a glimpse of the hunger that awaits. The rest have no other role than stuffing a turkey at Thanksgiving.

I once worked with her at the insurance company. But, that was nearly a decade ago. She was forward from the start with ideas so preposterous to listen to, but insidious to think about, that I never had a chance.

She played by her own rules, designed for her to always win. When you got to know her, as so many men did, you wanted her to win. She needed to win. She desired the win. She fought for the win. If she didn’t win, you didn’t win.

Today, the others and I were winners. She had the endurance to take it all and keep coming back for more. She would want to repeat the best of today tomorrow. We were all single with nothing but time on our hands. Even if performing solo, she wanted our best. None of us had to be told otherwise.

Nearly an hour and I was correct. She wanted three of us to satisfy her needs. The fourth, poor soul, had to record it all for posterity. The air conditioner failed thirty minutes ago. The room smelled bad from the sweat. Joints were aching. Throats were parched. The neighbors were pounding on the walls trying to get us to stop. She couldn’t stop if she wanted. She reached for the base and licked her lips. One more time. In harmony.

When the police did arrive, they cited our group for the noise complaint. It was too late to be practicing our strings and her brass for this weekend’s concert. We all knew this, but what choice did we have? Our conductor, she, was a taskmaster of critical acclaim. It had to be her way or the highway.

*I’ll apologize in advance if any references in this gift request plants a festive earworm in your head. But, like the motto underneath my family crest states: Si nos miseri erimus, ceteri quoque erunt.*

All I want for Christmas is to get “All I Want for Christmas” banished from my skull. I don’t think Ms. Carey’s annual ditty is a bad song per se. Many people enjoy listening to it while getting into the holiday spirit. It’s perfect background noise for wrapping presents or decorating the home. Since October 29th,1994, it has successfully targeted a specific niche from Thanksgiving to December 26th. I can’t dismiss its popularity. Kudos to its longevity.

But much to my chagrin, it dominates the seasonal soundtrack of my life. My limited mental capacity can’t, hasn’t or won’t commit all the lyrics to memory. And I don’t have the intellectual fortitude to prevent the fragments I can recall from replaying over and over ad nauseum. So, I am powerless to stop it from being the only partial song (holiday or otherwise) aired on heavy rotation from my mind’s DJ booth. I can’t ignore it either.

So, what I want to find under my Christmas tree is the cessation of being auditorily waterboarded by portions of this tune. Granting release from such Yuletide torture is a priceless gift that keeps on giving. I’ll be forever indebted if Santa leaves this for me.

Now, I am a fervent believer in the concept of “careful what you wish for.” I accept that when random lines from the Queen of Christmas’ jingle spontaneously surface, monopolizing the Muzak playlist echoing through the empty halls of my addled brain, it means there’s no possible way “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” or “Dominick the Donkey” will be able to gain purchase in my noggin.

It’s a victory, albeit a hollow one. I understand a blessing is a blessing even if said blessing is an incessant, lesser-of-three-evils one that can drive a man to the breaking point where he purposely doesn’t hang the stockings by the chimney with care. Still, a bit of variety or say in what I hear would be welcomed.

Psychological intervention may be necessary to discover why I can’t cue up something more appealing from my personal, archived mixtape. There are many suitable alternative carols with beautiful melodies I would cherish listening to internally. Like “Carol of the Bell.” Or “Silver Bells.” Both bring me auricular pleasure, but neither can loosen Mariah’s stranglehold and they stay muted. (At this juncture, I’d even settle for “Hells Bells” on continuous loop it if meant Mimi gets a break to rest her vocal cords.)

Thankfully, 2025 will be here soon which means “AIWFC” will have run its course and be shelved for eleven months. This gives me hope knowing that in a few days, there will be no cueing up of uninvited music that will keep playing.

To those reading this, I’ll end by extending a heartfelt “Merry Christmas.” If you don’t celebrate Christmas, then I’ll bid you a sincere “Happy Hanukkah.” For the non-religious in attendance, I’ll offer a generalized, “Happy Holidays.” For the remaining who don’t celebrate anything, I’ll conclude with a simple, “Be well and look both ways before crossing the street.”

Kooky King Kong kapellmeister

just jabbering gibberish (A - K)

Again, another awkward ambitious

arduous attempt at alphabetically

arranging atrociously ambiguously

absolutely asinine avoidable alliteration.

Because...? Basically bonafide belching,

bobbing, bumbling, bohemian beastie boy,

bereft bummer, bleeds blasé blues, begetting

bloviated boilerplate bildungsroman,

boasting bougainvillea background.

Civil, clever clover chomping, cheap

chipper cool cutthroat clueless clodhopper,

chafed centenary, codifies communication

cryptically, challenging capable, certifiably

cheerful college coed.

Divine dapper daredevil, deft, destitute,

doddering, dorky dude, dummkopf Dagwood

descendent, dagnabbit, demands daring

dedicated doodling, dubious, dynamite,

deaf dwarf, diehard doppelganger, Doctor

Demento double, declaring depraved

daffy dis(pense)able dufus Donald Duck

derailed democracy devastatingly defunct.

Eccentric, edified English exile,

effervescent, elementary, echinoderm

eating egghead, Earthling, excretes,

etches, ejaculates, effortless exceptional

emphatic effluvium enraging eminent,

eschatologically entranced, elongated

elasmobranchii, emerald eyed Ebenezer,

effectively experiments, emulates epochal

eczema epidemic, elevating, escalating,

exaggerating enmity, enduring exhausting

emphysema.

Freed fentanyl fueled, fickle figurative

flippant fiddler, fiendishly filmy, fishy,

fluke, flamboyantly frivolous, fictitious,

felonious, fallacious, fabulously fatalistic,

flabbergasted, fettered, flustered, facile,

faceless, feckless, financially forked,

foregone, forlorn futile fulsome, freckled

feverish, foo fighting, faulty, freezing,

fleeting famously failing forecaster, flubs

"FAKE" fundamental fibber fiat, fabricating

fiery fissile fractured fios faculties.

Gamesomeness goads gawky, gingerly,

goofily graceful, grandiloquent gent, gallant,

genteel, geico, guppy gecko, gabbling gaffes,

gagging, gamboling, gestating, gesticulating,

garlic, gnashing, gobbling, gyrating,

gruesomely grinning, grappling, gnomadic

giggly, grubby, gastrointestinally grumpy

gewgaw gazing gesticulating guy,

geographically generically germane,

gungho, grave gremlin, grumbling, guiding,

guaranteeing, guerilla gripped gatling guns

ginning gumpshun.

Hello! Herewith halfway harmless hazmat,

haphazard haggard, hectored, hastily,

hurriedly, harriedly hammered, handsomely

hackneyed, heathen, hellbent hillbilly, hirsute,

hidden hippie, huffy humanoid, hexed, heady,

Hellenistic, holistic, hermetic, hedonistic

heterosexual Homo sapiens historical heirloom,

homeless, hopeful, holy, hee haw heretical hobo.

Indefatigable, iconographic, iconic, idealistic,

idyllic, inimitable, idiosyncratic, ineffable,

irreverently issuing idiotic, indifferent, inert,

ineffectual, ingeniously iniquitous, immaterial,

insignificant, indubitable, inexplicable, ignoble

itches, ineffectually illustriously illuminating

immovable infused ichthyosaurus implanted

inside igneous intrusions immensely

imperturbable improbable.

Jovial jabbering jinxed January jokester

just jimmying jabberwocky

justifying jangling jarring juvenile jibberish

jubilantly jousting jittering

jazzy jawbreaking jumble

justifying, jostling, Jesus;

junior jowly janissary joyful Jekyll

joined jumbo Jewess jolly Jane;

jammed jello junket jiggled

jeopardized jingled jugs.

Kooky knucklehead klutz

knowingly kneaded, kicked, killed

knobby kneed kleptomanic.

On every holiday or birthday, mine or others, I wish always it seems for the same thing, or at least, since maturing. I no longer want to cure the condition we all share.

You know, "Life," though there was a time that I would have said I wished for peace, thinking how it should be a cure-all for war, pestilence, disease, general stupidity, and related suffering.

Then I slowly, painfully recognized that I didn't want to live without fight.

I want to grapple with problems. I want to overcome challenges in faith and possibility, physically and emotionally.

And accordingly, I sign my greeting cards with that dual edged wish:

Here's to a Creative Year.

Your emergence into this world begins with your first inhalation. Your transition out of this world begins after your final exhalation. Although the circumstances vary, both moments are inevitable and common denominators for everyone. A little or a lot, if you are drawing air into your lungs, removing the oxygen component and releasing the byproduct, then you’re living. Breathing is a fundamental and imperative basis for each person’s existence.

So, the standard by which we measure the caliber of our life shouldn’t be how deep a breath we take. A purpose-driven life comes from how we utilize our talents during and between respirations. Success, and failure, is what gives value to time. Having value to time is indicative of leading a quality life. Looking back on where we were in relation to where we are will prove if our lives are meaningful.

A breath’s intensity doesn’t matter. The toddler’s small puff of air is sufficient for blowing out two birthday candles. That’s enough to give her a sense of pride while bringing joy to those sitting around the table applauding the feat. Whispering “I love you and will see you again someday,” to an unresponsive spouse in hospice care delivers both a reminder and a promise that exemplifies the commitment to a decades-long union. The cancer patient in remission belts out, with full, forceful exhalation, Auld Lang Syne as a defiant proclamation of victory. Screaming at the top of your lungs, “I deserve better,” is a cathartic empowerment. All these impactful moments were made possible using differing volumes of air.

Whether dealing with COPD or training for an Olympic marathon, an individual can make a difference in the world. Rejoice in whatever amount of air you’re breathing. If it yields positive results, your life is full.

As the ruling Coven of the 100th fold, we were destined for greatness. Rest assured, we took great care to honor humanity. We only turned them into giant apples to be eaten. Their sweet crunches were music to our ears.

As one could imagine, when we located the capsule from the depths of the Hellfire Lake with the absolutely voluntary help of one hundred slaves, we had high expectations. As the hexes were carefully disarmed, we dreamed of the dark magic unlocked before our eyes.

The smoke knocked me out the minute it opened, and when I woke up, I suddenly found out that the sun, which was covered by our darkness spells, actually came out for once. Miraculously, the pitiful humans passing by were not slaving away anymore to our bidding but actually thriving and—dare I say it—laughing at me! It was intolerable. According to the juicy taste of his last words, the greatest spell of history saved in that time capsule was a disastrous spell that inverted everything except for me.

Why would our ancestors make such a time bomb and rid us of the joy of human apples? I can’t tell. Maybe a certain snake might know…

Walk through a cemetery both in remembrance of the family, friends or even strangers who have gone before you and as a reminder that someday you will take your inevitable place with them, joining the ranks of the deceased.

Although the plot sizes may be uniform, there are various styles of grave markers. They range from minimalist, a rectangular piece of granite situated in such a way that the groundskeeper can pass over it with a lawn mower, to towering obelisks, drawing your attention towards the sky.

Some have been there so long that the exterior is weathered. The elements have compromised the inscription, making it difficult to read. Others are newer with the engraving still defined. Passing your hand over it, your fingers can differentiate each individual letter. You’ll see religious symbols glorifying a god or markings identifying a service to America. A few have squat, wrought iron fences along the perimeter, even though there’s no chance any neighboring souls will ever physically encroach on this plot of land.

Natural bouquets in store-bought vases or decorations are left by the tombstones. Over time, the ornaments become bleached by the sun. The fresh-cut flowers will wilt and decompose, like an analogy of the person they were for. Small tokens with hidden meanings are left behind as loved ones attempt to keep their family members connected to the physical world.

The four things all the markers have in common are a name, the date of birth, the date of death and a space (or hyphen) between the dates. Celebrating when a person was born and remembering when they died are important bookmarks. But the truly impactful area is the overlooked space separating the DOB and DOD. That unassuming blank area symbolizes the person’s life. Everything done and all the lives touched are hidden behind that space. The threads of experiences woven together to create the tapestry of the deceased’s life are summarized by a non-descript emptiness separating two specific dates.

Whoever knew that person is part of that barren surface. But who’s still alive that can recall the stories it holds? As acquaintances and generations fade away, memories will no longer be relived and shared with those who never knew this person. What impactful events in that person’s life are destined to be erased with time’s passage? What regrets were had? What opportunities were missed or plans never executed that could have added importance to that void? The smallest area on the tombstone represents the entirety of someone’s life. It will always occupy the same part on the marker but never outwardly reveal the complex story of the person it is a testimony to.

Cemeteries remind me not to substitute complacency for comfort. I strive to excel in my Comfort Zone. But I am aware my Comfort Zone is dynamic because it has and will continue changing over the years according to my needs, experiences or maturity. Not reexamining then redefining my Comfort Zone means it will become a Complacent Zone. Life is static in the Complacent Zone. Accepting complacency as the norm eliminates risk which increases the chance that I won’t even realize I’m slowly being smothered. I’ll end up neck deep, wallowing in Complacent Zone quicksand with no desire to free myself.

My plan is to be dynamic so that when I’m exiting this wild and precious life, I’ll be at peace knowing the gap on my tombstone between birth and death is not a wasted space.

His wife of 47 years had passed away on Christmas day of 2021 from COVID-19. In the ICU at the local hospital she had licked, with what was left of her saliva, the envelope to seal the present she wanted to leave for him.

And just in time. By the time he had arrived to visit her that day, the nurses were removing her catheter and IVs. She had been pronounced dead just minutes earlier. Bedside, his grieving wasn't melodramatic, for he was a private man. But the nurse there could see the deep sorrow.

"Mr. Sanchez," she said.

"Yes?"

"Your wife wanted me to give you this." The nurse handed him the sealed envelope. He took it from her and read his wife's last words:

MERRY CHRISTMAS, LOVE OF MY LIFE. THIS GIFT IS AS MUCH FOR ME AS IT IS FOR YOU — DO NOT OPEN UNTIL CHRISTMAS 2025

Sanchez seemed puzzled. "Did she say anything about this?"

"No," the nurse replied, "just that I make sure you got it."

His daughter had flown in for her funeral. Together, when they had returned to his house after the cremation and services three days later, she saw the envelope he had placed on the mantle, above the Christmas stockings. She picked it up, which seemed to upset him.

“Don’t open that!” he said in a panicked tone.

“Oh, no, no way,” she said, reading what had been inscribed on the front. She replaced it from where she had retrieved it and walked over to hug him. “Mom was always a genius at getting you just the thing you needed each Christmas.”

He smiled at her. “What in the world would she think I would need in three years?”

“I don’t know. That was her thing. But she had a perfect record.”

“That she did,” he replied. “Remember when I used to ask her how in the hell she knew I needed this or needed that?”

“Yeah. She’d tell you, ’A wife’s intuition. I just knew.”

“She always did,” he added.

The unopened envelope sat there undisturbed, even after all of the Christmas decorations had been boxed away and brought down to the basement. His daughter flew back home after helping him tidy up and, he didn’t say it out loud to her when she was there, but he wondered if he'd put those decorations back up again, ever.

Just wouldn’t be the same, he concluded.

Life went on for him. After a year, at the proddings of his daughter, he ventured out again. He joined some community reading clubs and even subscribed to some ballroom dancing lessons. He related well and kindly with the women he met, but there was only one for him, his wife of 47 years, and he knew that she was waiting for him.

He had almost forgotten about her final gift to him.

Almost.

It was 2025 and as Christmas season began to arise on storefronts and become prominent on TV advertising, he felt the urge to return to the basement.

He wanted to decorate this year, for this was the Christmas he'd finally open her present. Now, what do I really need this year? he asked himself, remembering his late wife’s perfect record.

Like his wife before him, he passed away unceremoniously on this Christmas day, albeit three years later, in 2025.

When his daughter had flown in to sort things out after hearing the bad news, she happened upon the opened envelope that was, as described, "As much for me as it is for you." She realized her mother's wait was over, and she knew how to send him to her.

In the envelope was a pre-paid cremation coupon made out in his name.

“She did it again,” she said to herself. “Just the thing he needed. Her perfect record stands.” She smiled. “How’d she know?” she asked herself, then chuckled. “She just did. Intuition. She always did.”

The night is dark and thick and it falls heavy, hot, and suffocating over the land.

An grass is tall and it is sharp and it droops slightly as it lines the ditch of the dusty, worn road. The dusty road that if you look down it will look you in the eyes and say Yes. I'm here. Come to me.

The moon hangs high in the sky but all its light appears faded. It's just a circle of white ringed by gray as the night is just an all-expansive starless sky of black. The only light there is shines from the piercing rays of a gas station light far off in the distance, too far to illuminate anything. The night is unnatural. The night is eerie. The night is heavy.

This is the place where nature and the city clashes. Nature is overpowered. Of course. By the city's snaking fingers that press into everything. The tired-terror-rage-hurt in the eyes of the men and the hopeless desolate love in the mouths of the women. And the sorrow snd silence in the people who are not either. The way the grass dies in the polluted dust of the roadside. But there is living grass still. There is kindness and cleverness in the eyes of the men. Anger and confidence in mouths of the women. Secrets, hope, and wisdom in the people who are not either. And there is the way the night falls like a disguise, like a cloak. Like a blanket.

The crickets chirp and buzz, silently cheering me on.

I am a shadow of a girl. I am a girl lost in the shadows. Trailing behind another girl who always, always, always blocks all the light. I am the silent one. The unseen one. I am the one who is always nothing and no one.

But not anymore. The air is hot and humid and yet it feels cool around my body. Around my face, around my arms, around the soles of my bare feet.

The dew on the grass brushes against my ankles.

Miri kissed me three days ago. Before I set out onto this journey with the blocker of my light. She told me to be brave. Be confident. Be brutal. And I'm not brave. I'm broken. But when Miri kisses me hope runs down like molten gold over the broken, jagged edges of my heart. Pulls them together.

So for her I am brave. For us both.

The other girl is walking in front of me. She always is. She is walking slowly. Even her steps are haughty. And I don't quite know how she manages that. As always, my steps are quiet.

I walk faster though. Just a tiny, immeasurable bit faster than her. The air around me grows immeasurably colder. The path is full of rocks and broken bits of concrete from when the road was functional. It digs into my bare feet. She in her thick-soled shoes cannot feel it.

Seven days ago Miri and I were hiding in the alley sharing breathless open-mouthed kisses, hands brushing up under each other's shirts. She whispered my name over and over again.

Ayali. Ayali. Ayali. Ayali. Ayali I love you.

And she told me she sabotaged the engine of the car. The world smelled faintly of exhaust and heat as it always did and for the first time in my life I cried. And she moved to quickly wipe the tears from my face with her gentle hands so that I would not be caught.

The night is still. The world is tensed with anticipation. Waiting.

The girl gets out her cellphone, and dials the number of her father.

"Hello, daddy? Yes the car broke down. We're. We're on our way to the gas station now. But gee whiz cheese and crackers, the road is so long and it's so hot out here. I need a fan or an air conditioner of something. We don't have any of that here now do we? Christ on a bicycle I'm too delicate and sensitive for this."

I wait until she finishes her phone call. None of this will work if she's still on the phone with her father.

The moonlight softly illuminates the top of her hair. Her phone's screen shines pale against the skin of her cheek. She looks eerie. Frightening. Though I don't remember ever not being frightened of her. It's good that I know exactly where she is. It's good that I know exactly what she is.

One year ago Miri and I were sitting on our knees, facing each other, on the floor of the garage. Her eyes sparkled golden in the midsummer sunset light. Her dark hair frizzed in the humidity. She was chanting softly. Lost in a meditative trance. Lost in my dark eyes. I was lost in hers. And the words I chanted laced and wove through the words she chanted to create a beautiful whispering harmony. Beneath us the runes glowed. They were made of feathers from the seagulls and crows that soared in the sky, arranged into the shapes of thin loops forming a circle. The birds soared and squawked and screamed free in that endless blue and they took care of us. We continued chanting as the sun's rays dipped below the horizon. We took the stolen glass jar that we had previously filled with rainwater. And we held it up against the horizon so that it caught the last of the sun's rays. We soaked all the feathers inside the water. As the twilight bathed everything blue we continued chanting, both holding the jar of feathers in both of our hands.

And as the light finally faded we solemnly took twelve steps to the sickly, dying tree holding on desperately to the crumbling ground beside the garage. It was fading, unlike the bright domesticated flowering plants carefully maintained in the front entrance of the house. And we poured out the contents of the jar over its roots.

Brother Tree. You who bend and bow to the city and its rulers as we do. Brother tree. You who hold the life force of Mother Earth as we do. Brother Tree. Aid us in our quest to restore what has been lost and to build what has been broken. Aid us in our quest to bring back life and hope into the hearts of the people.

And now I watch as the light on her cheek flickers into nothing. She puts her phone in her purse and scans the horizon. I'm stalking even closer to her. And as quick as a striking stake my arms twist around her throat. She chokes out a scream. I squeeze as hard as I can but she kicks and claws and writhes and sends us both tumbling to the ground. She gains the upper hand for a moment. Lays her upper body on top of mine and pins my arms to my side. But I bite her cheek hard enough to draw blood. And she screams and jerks away. I spring up and then we are on each other. Biting and grabbing and kicking and pushing in the dirt. Until finally I am straddling over her, with both my hands around her throat. A vice grip fuelled by the unending, incomprehensible pain and rage and desolation and suffocation that has been my life thus far.

I smile the most deranged, glorious smile as I feel her breathing slow, as I see her struggling get weaker and weaker as her body becomes limp. She goes still and silent under me, eyes wide open and completely spaced out. I hold her down for a few minutes, just to be sure it worked.

Four days ago a great storm swept through the lands. It brought with it pouring, torrential rain that was freezing cold, colder than any ice. Just as Miri and I had summoned. As everyone huddled inside the house, Miri and I placed the jar on the ground by the tree. The tree was stronger now. It stood up taller. It's leaves didn't droop. It had a healthy sheen. Rain hit the leaves, and soaked in the life force and essence of the tree. As the world stood in that untameable standstill, water rolled down the leaves, different droplets coalescing together into thick, cold drops. And as the storm raged on and on and on the jar filled with tree-soaked rainwater.

Miri and I got a small reprieve. Could claim that we were trapped in the garage due to the rain. We lay on our straw mat, with wet hair, and kissed. She straddled her body on top of me and then bent down low to kiss me. I lightly dug my fingers into her waist. Brushed them up and down her thighs. She smelled like heat and sweat and dawn and the ocean mist.

Everything around me is dark. Pitch black like a page with ink spilled all over it. Like all the world is nothing. Nothing but a thick, almost tangible black. The road is abandoned. Nobody can see us. Still I carry the girl's limp, cold body towards the ditch, far from the road. Far from bright headlights. In case anyone speeds by. I keep walking until I can see the familiar glow of moonlight shining on water.

Thank you for showing me the way, Brother Moon, I whisper. I lay her body down beside the water. Then, I step into the water to see how deep it is. It's a really dirty pond full of fish waste and mud but to a large extent water is water. I get the small vial full of the tree water I have hidden away in my underclothes.

Four days ago Miri and I kneeled on either side of the water jar, in the dead of night. Softly chanting chanting and chanting and chanting until the water flowed blue like the horizon. We bottled a bit of it in a stolen laboratory microfuge tube, given to us by the boys across the alley who got it from someone else. And we slept curled around each other as we've done for years.

I bring the little tube up to the light of the moon.

"Brother Moon. Father Sky. Mother Earth. Sister Water. Please may I be granted the shape of the one who held the power. May I be granted the shape of the one who held the keys. So that I too may hold the keys and so that I too may hold the power. Transfigure my face and my throat and my body until the day when my people can be truly free. So that I might walk through the world unburdened and fool the the ones in the high into letting my people go. Brother Moon. Father Sky. Sibling Fire. Mother Earth. Sister Water. Brother Tree. Siblings Stars. Sibling rain. Sister Sun. All the forces of the world. Twist my face into a falsehood so that I may bring the reign of truth into the time."

I bring the vial up to the sky then I pour the water over my hair and forehead.

The world seems to still around me. The wind starts blowing, strong and cool and quick over my face and through my hair. I feel as if I am on fire, but it isn't painful. It's invigorating. Energizing. Finally I look up. I am wearing shoes. I have on her soft clothes. My hair is in the long, intricate braids she wore. My skin is soft and smooth like hers. I look into the bag that I am now holding. I pull out the phone and take a picture of myself.

Yes. I have her body. I look just like her. And I snap a picture of her. She has my body. Good. I'll miss my body but I know I will have it back once the work is done. But now I will leave the girl to rot and be picked at by the fishes.

Two years ago Miri came into my life. She was thirteen years old. Her parents were dead. Her baby had been taken from her. And she was utterly broken. I pieced her back together in the far too short moments between dusk and nighttime and between dawn and morning. She pieced me together in the fleeting moments we stole.

I briskly walk to the gas station, testing out my voice. Sure, I sound like her. But I don't quite speak like her yet. So I have to practice. I call her father, my voice wavering. I pretend that Ayali (me) attacked me (her) but "I" managed to fight "her" off.

In about an hour I get to the gas station and I wait inside until he picks me up.

Two years ago I had been alone for nine years and my life was infinitely worse than death. And then Miri told me that I was beautiful, wonderful, amazing. I was everything that was good in the universe and I was deeply beloved by more people than I could count.

And so I sleep for the first time in a large, soft bed. And I sneak Miri in there too. Claim that I'm oh so tired from my ordeal and I couldn't possibly sleep alone and I need her to stay up and stand watch. We hide under the covers of the bed and kiss each other senseless.

Later we to go live in a separate apartment away from prying eyes. And we create a space where there are no power imbalances. And we plan.

I chat with the girl's uncle, who thinks I am her. He's very high up in the military. I manage to guile him into giving me the locations and entry codes for all the armouries.

Six months later all out war breaks out. It's winter. It's cold. It's nighttime. The winter solstice actually. An auspicious time. The moon hangs bright and still, tinted the slightest bit blue. We march all together. Sharing in each other's heat. Sharing in each other's anger. Sharing in each other's strength. More people than I ever knew existed. We storm the armoires by the thousands. We easily take out the guards. Though they shoot at us. Though our comrades fall. There are simply too many people to shoot and we fall upon them and beat them to death with our bare hands while others flow into the doors of the weapons vaults. It's the most exhilarating night of my life. I had never even seen that many people all right there at once before.

And we take the weapons and we run with them. Sure, we don't know how to use them. At first. But those of us who had been spying on the military - which is many of us - soon teach the others. And then it's all stops pulled out. We know that if this war drags on and on we will starve. Normally this would be more than enough to stop us from even pursuing it. But we outnumber them two to one. We have most of the weapons. The odds are in our favour and the chips are on our side. We know that this is the one chance to get free. And freedom is worth dying for. If it means our children will live. We can win this. And we do win. Easily. It's a matter of weeks.

People did die though. People died in droves. And it was terrible. It was bloody. It was ugly. It was gruesome. It was painful. For them and for all the ones they left behind. It was something that shouldn't've happened. But they died for the new generations. For the future. And for the Earth and Sky and all Their Children.

Two years later I'm back in my proper body. I'm surrounded by my community. I'm married to Miri, and with my four-year-old stepchild Novalee. She's so small. And she's back with us. Reunited with her mother at the same age in which I was separated from mine. And she can be a child. The air is clearer than it ever has been. The water more flowing. The ground is cleaner. There are more plants than before. The moon shines brightly and so do the stars. And people have peace in their eyes. Have joy.