I will preface this poem to say that my first real, serious crush was completely unrequited and not very realistic as I think back on it. He was my best friend's older brother, and a

dashing marine. All the descriptors for a cheesy hallmark movie haha. I remember after I met him for the first time, I couldn't eat for a week. I cannot explain that feeling to this day, however I was a young college girl who put her first "love" on such a pedastal there was not room for 2. So when I think of this time in my life, I think of how I just ached. I ached for him, and did not even know him. Not really. Sounds silly to me now, but to the young girl that I was, it was everything and it was real.

Here is what I wrote back then some 8 years or so now.

When

I find myself

writing of you

I lose myself completely.

I ache for want of you and

search for you in a sea of faces.

I cry tears that wash away doubts,

wipe the slate clean and my wanting goes on,

as if it were a myth passed down by word of mouth

as if it were a song that begged to be sung for the world.

Don't you see? Wanting you does not make me whole or happy.

Needing you does not complete the faint heartbeat of life.

Consoling myself to be resigned to waiting is akin

to waiting for rain in a decade long drought,

chafing from the ends of my hands to

the tips of my toes you encompass

every part of my aching body.

And I, well I, wait for want

of you and only you

like seas when

they recede

into quiet

sleep.

Mare got the drawing when she was fourteen. She was on vacation in Quebec City with her mom. One day, as they were walking down a cobblestone street, they saw a row of artists, drawing tourists for a small fee. Her mom looked at the work of several, found the one she considered the best and had him draw Mare.

He was a tall, thin man; a slight curve from constantly bending over his canvas did not diminish his height. He dressed entirely in black, unlike the other artists whose colorful garb brightened the rather chilly, gray day. His hair, dark brown, was longish; springy curls fell over his eyes. When he looked at her, she saw that these were like a cat’s: amber, with a dark ring and a pupil that seemed abnormally large.

He stared at her for so long Mare began to blush and fidget. He reached out a hand to tilt her head just so, then, turned to his canvas. His strokes were quick and sure. The result, done in pastels, was spectacular, better than a photograph. When he finished, the artist prepared the drawing for travel and gave it to Mare. He touched her hand, briefly, and though he didn’t say a word, he spoke to her. She never told anyone. She herself wasn’t certain that she had not just invented the moment.

I’ve given you a gift. The gift of starting over. Once. If at some point in your lifetime you feel so broken that you want to start again, you need only gaze into the eyes of the photo and you will find yourself here, now, this age, this place.

However, be warned: Do not come back because you have lost someone and you want to see them again, because you are unhappy with the results of some choices you have made, or because you are dying of some incurable disease. You will NOT come back with the knowledge of the life you have lived. It will be as if that life never was. The only guarantee is that you will be as and where you are presently. You may make the same decisions, meet the same people, incur the same illnesses. Or, you may not. What has happened until this moment is and cannot be changed. The life you have ahead of you is still merely possibility. My gift is that your life from this day forward will remain in the state of possibility until you take your last breath.

“C’mon, darling. We have dinner reservations. Thank you for the lovely picture,” her mom interrupted the silent connection, paying the agreed upon sum and taking Mare’s hand.

The artist inclined his head and turned toward the next tourist.

Her mother framed the picture when they got home, and it remained on the wall of her living room for 60 years.

As time passed, often bitterness, despair or grief made Mare want to look into the eyes of that young girl and start over. But, she would remember the artist’s words and worry that she’d merely relive the same anguish, and think, yeah, once was enough. Why put myself through a second round of agony? Even if it allowed her to relive the joyous moments as well…if it did….

That if kept the picture in it’s frame. Until today.

She is not sick, indeed, she is rather robust for a woman of a certain age. But, in the last decade, she has lost everyone who ever mattered to her to manmade killers: bombs and viruses. She is alone in a world that is devouring itself. Part of her wants to go back to the innocent she was, if only to be again in a world that still has hope.

To a Mare that was young and more hopeful.

She sat in her favorite chair by the window, the picture in one hand, an oleander plant on the table by her side. She could hear the bombing in the distance. It would reach her little home soon, she thought. The street was nearly dark, the sun hidden by black smoke and the ashes of millions. As she stared out the window, she saw a shadow walking towards her door. Seeing her, the figure came to the window instead.

Mare, mouth agape, stared into the cat-like, amber eyes she’d never forgotten.

Looking out the window

I seek for something distinct

Hugs and happiness

Captures my eye

Turning back to my desk

I feel distress

Feels like it’s been ages

In this trapped prison

Picking up a book

Paints a smile on my face

The sense of calmness

Let me out with a sigh

Why not embrace this

And look on the positive side

There are ups and downs in this pandemic

But make sure to stand strong

Make yourself happy because you’re all you need to put a smile on you face!

Be strong throughout this pandemic and encourage yourself! Do something that makes you happy. ❤

There’s a certain smell that comes with a dance hall. It’s not unpleasant, some mixture of sweat, dust, delight, consternation, and the leather soles of dancing shoes of every description: Sexy, strappy Latin heels, uber-conservative standard pumps, sleek flats, and jazzy, stretchy pull-ons with a separated sole for maximum mobility. There’s cologne and perfume too, and generally a lot of it, many scents mingled together. It’s the smell of sweaty hands, minty breath (or not so minty, for the unlucky), and passion.

Sensual passion, sure, especially if it’s blues night or a particularly steamy tango. But more than that, it’s a passion for the chemistry of shared movement, shared creation, shared pleasure found (potentially) in each beat of a good rhythmic tune. The potential is part of the allure.

Will it happen? Will I find someone who will glide into and against and in harmony with me in a way that satisfies the deepest, motion-sensored part of my soul? Will I dance with that partner - or many - for hours, until I am gasping for breath and my feet are pinched and burning? Or will I be polka’d off my feet by someone shorter and more wiry than I, who I can barely keep in step with? Will the creeper who would add the sensual to every style want to pull me to the floor repeatedly, will I need a good excuse? Or will my friends - the familiar but reliable - be my dancemates and fill my hunger tonight?

The magic happens in the frame, at least that’s what my dance teacher would always say. You step to your partner with a physical presence that is sturdy but pliable, willing but resolute. Your grip on each other is not a death grip, but neither is it spineless, passive, or wishy-washy. You move, and as you move, you feel and sense and delight in the other’s movement. It’s a duet of two bodies, two minds, two beings who oppose and yet compliment each other in focused, and hopefully shared, enchantment.

The alternative, or absence of this consummation, can taste bitterly of mindless boredom and awkward, moist palms, and too much ice water to drown your sorrows. Therein lies the risk. Do I venture out tonight? But the memory pulls me, calls to my limbs and my toes and my heart until usually ... the answer is yes.

An audio version of this piece read by me can be heard on the link below. Special thanks to Kohei Horikoshi for creating the world of My Hero Academia, and thank you to All Might voice actor Christopher Sabat and Shigaraki voice actor Eric Vale for inspiring my own voice acting dreams, including this recording.... https://audiomack.com/roses311sublime/song/14198038

Philibert, a young man in his late 20′s, was a huge My Hero Academia fan. He read the manga, watched the anime, played the video games, met some of the voice actors from the anime at conventions - he even started writing his own stories inspired by the franchise. His favorite character was the antagonist Tomura Shigaraki. Sure, he was no doubt a villain, but Shigaraki’s growth throughout the series was so inspiring to Philibert. He hadn’t met Shigaraki’s voice actor, but doing so was on his bucket list.

Philibert was walking home from the local comic book store, looking forward to diving into the treasures he had just purchased. He was almost at the corner of his street when a cloud of purple smoke appeared before him. A young man decked out in My Hero Academia gear emerged from the smoke. He wore a League of Villains baseball cap, a face mask with one of Shigaraki’s hands on it, a Deku T-Shirt, and All Might themed pajama bottoms.

“Greetings Philibert, my name is Con Man!” The young man said. “I have arrived to grant your request!”

“My request?” Philibert asked. “How do you know me, and what do you mean?”

“I am a My Hero Academia fan, just like you!” Con Man replied. “The difference is, I have the ability to transport others to fictional worlds. I can send you to the world of My Hero Academia, and you could meet the one and only Tomura Shigaraki!”

Although the concept of visiting a fictional world sounded impossible, Philibert had just seen this guy teleport in front of him. He completely accepted his claims, and was overjoyed.

“That sounds incredible!” Philibert exclaimed. “I’ve been wanting to meet Shigaraki’s voice actor, but I never imagined I could meet the actual character! Yes, how can we make this happen right now?”

“I appreciate your excitement, but there is something you should know about my power.” Con Man warned. “It is true I can send you to this world, but you will not look or sound like yourself upon arrival. You will take on the appearance and voice of a random My Hero Academia character. I have no control over which one that will be.”

This news made Philibert even more excited.

“I get to meet the real Shigaraki, and I get to become a My Hero Academia character? This is better than cosplaying at a comic convention!”

“It sounds great in theory, but keep in mind that although you will look and sound like one of the characters, you will not get their quirks.” Con Man advised. “Knowing this, are you sure you want to do this?”

“Completely sure.” Philibert responded without hesitation. “I am ready to go whenever you can send me.”

*****

Con Man surrounded Philibert with purple smoke. When the smoke faded, Philibert found himself standing in a bar. Standing before him was his all time favorite baddie, Tomura Shigaraki.

“Hello Shigaraki, you are my favorite My Hero Academia character, and because of that, I am here!”

Philibert gasped when he realized which character he had been transferred to the My Hero Academia world as. He was none other than All Might, a character that Shigaraki despised. He noticed his idol wearing casual clothes and a hand over his face, and also remembered that the bar was a early hideout for the League of Villains in the series. Alas, the moment he was meeting Shigaraki was during a time in the storyline where his hero’s hate for All Might was extremely high. If he couldn’t convince Shigaraki that he wasn’t actually All Might, he might not return home to witness the end of the series.

“Who sent you here All Might?” Shigaraki asked in an annoyed tone. “Actually, it’s fine. I was just thinking about how I would find you and kill you, and now I don’t have to seek you out at all.”

“No Shigaraki, I’m not All Might, my name is Philibert! I am from another world where you exist in a manga, an anime, and video games. I was sent here by someone named Con Man, and he told me I would be transferred here in the form of another My Hero Academia character, and apparently I was sent here as All Might. But I’m not All Might, I’m Philibert, your biggest fan!”

“Wow, you’ve really lost it All Might.” Shigaraki replied to Philibert’s protests. “Even if your ridiculous story is true, you still appeared to me in a form that you know pisses me off. You played poorly, and now it’s game over for you. Too bad this isn’t the video game from your world, because in my world, you don’t get to try again. Farewell.”

Before Philibert could say another word, Shigaraki put his hand on Philibert’s head. As Philibert decayed into dust, he reflected on how he should have never trusted someone named Con Man, and how he should have just waited for a convention where he could have met Shigaraki’s voice actor instead. But as his idol already proclaimed, it was game over for him.

Yes. You are right. I am a killer. And I, like my victims, deserve to die... at least in my opinion.But my view isn't objective and neither is yours or anyone else's. It's a view, and there are different views, thousands, sometimes. However, there are times when only one point of view is relevant.

We all have an addiction. For some, it's coffee and for others, it's alcohol. Some can handle their addiction, some don't even know their addiction and others are surrounded by their addictions on a daily basis, which makes it hard to resist. Imagine it being like sugar. If you were addicted to sugar, could you stop? Sugar is almost in every product you consume. And now imagine that you can smell that sugar wherever you go. It would drive you crazy, wouldn't it? And now imagine the sugar saying stupid things that don't even make sense, and all you can think is "shut up."At least that's what I think about right now.

The guy standing in front of me had no idea what he was talking about. And when I look around, I see that everyone else knows. But he is the boss's son and, apparently, that gives him the right to waste our time. Well, maybe after tonight, he will think twice about the time he is wasting. If he had the ability to waste anyone's time after tonight...Or if he could think. I wish I could kill him right now. My hands began to shake, and it took all of my energy and focus not to kill him right now. Not to cut his throat.

When I looked away, I saw her. She was beautiful, but that wasn't why I admired her. You can see the brilliance in her eyes. And all my senses were calmed when I smelled her perfume in the air. For a moment, I forgot my wish to kill the people in this room and I focused only on her. Nobody had ever done anything like what she had done for me. It was simple, but beautiful. A small gesture that meant everything to me.

For a moment, I wish we could be two people who are driving around at midnight, going out for a snack or driving into the woods on the weekends. But that will never happen. She would never want to be with me.

Ruvin shook his head and sighed. What was taking her so long to grab the next order? He had slammed his hand on the bell & even yelled: ‘‘Order up!’’

He poked his head out of the kitchen for a short while & scanned the room for Angeline. The voice of a slight shriek echoed in the air. That must be Angeline.

Ruvin wondered what she had ‘noticed’ this time. What could her instincts be informing her now?

He placed the order closer by the kitchen door on the serving table. The minute that Angeline walked through the door— Ruvin exclaimed: ‘‘Oy!- What is it this time? What’s got you spooked?’’

Angeline’s face seemed to look quite pale as if all the blood had been drained from her. Ruvin snapped his fingers.

‘‘Earth to Angeline~’’

She broke out of her panic mode and bowed her head: ‘‘I’m sorry for that, Ruvin. I just thought that...ah..never mind.’’

Ruvin furrowed his brows and hoped the waitress was alright. She was getting spooked easily this season. Maybe she was reading too many horror tales past midnight.

Angline quickly grabbed the order and proceeded to march out of the kitchen. She continued to head toward Table 13.

She stopped for a slight moment as though she was in a trance. Then she blinked her eyes and carried on toward Table 13.

Once she was close to Table 13, she carefully and slowly placed the order before the customer.

He had a pair of sunglasses on, a hat on the top of his head, & he also wore a pair of scarlet gloves.

He lifted the metal cover over the dish. And said, ‘‘Oh my— The Chef’s outdone himself this time.’’

There on his plate was served a plate of a still beating heart. A bowl was served, too.

When the customer placed a spoon into the bowl, a pair of green eyes bobbled from the bottom of the soup & onto the top of the lava looking soup. The soup seemed to be still boiling in the bowl.

Angline gulped and tried to say: ‘‘Enjoy your meal.’’ But she was in shock, filled with fright at the sight of Table 13’s order.

The customer had only said, ‘‘I’ll take the order to dine in from the Chef’s after midnight menu.’’

Angline felt her heart racing inside her chest. What in the world was Ruvin serving his customers?

Was that a bowl of soup filled with human eyes?? And a plate of a beating heart?

She rushed to the bathroom— something was not right. Angeline placed a hand over her mouth. The pasta she had not too long ago was making its way back up her throat.

When the lights of the bathroom flickered, Angeline tried to scream. Something had swooped behind her in a nanosecond & covered her mouth.

In the mirror she looked in horror as the only thing she saw was her reflection- and the sight of a pair of sunglasses, a hat— and a pair of scarlet gloves also reflected in the mirror. But no reflection of another human being.

She flinched at the feeling of a bite on her neck. As she tried to escape from the strange being’s hold, she’s knocked the glasses off the being’s face.

Angline’s mouth opened in surprise. This face was that of...who..she tried to remember.

The second her body hit the floor, she realized who this being was...it was the Prince..

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=jecQcgbyetw

#ThePrince 04/07/2021.

As usual, my mind wanders as our pastor gives the homily. It doesn’t help that I’d seen Henry and his family in the pews when we’d first arrived at church, so I can’t stop thinking about what Pearl said on Friday.

If Pearl says he gay, then I guess he is. It seems weird to me that I didn’t know, but I guess no one does. It still doesn’t explain why he gave Pearl his number and told her to text him, though. Unless they’re best friends now or something.

I wish I could ask Pearl, but her family doesn’t come to Saint Paul’s on Sundays. They live a half-hour drive away, so they go to some other church instead.

Before long, the service is over and I’ve spent all of it scrutinizing Henry Foley. Granted, I don’t usually pay attention during services anyway.

. . .

At school on Monday, Mr. Gleason assigns a project about the laws of motion, and my religion class is put in charge of planning a school-wide church service, and Mrs. Vena gives us another essay to write.

I’m too busy to think about Henry or Pearl.

And then Thursday rolls around, and I’m spending my lunch period with John and Maggie because we haven’t even started our slideshow on Isaac Newton yet. Well, they haven’t started but I actually already made my slides, and some of theirs too because I thought we were going to run out of time. And we still might, because it’s due on Friday.

Luckily we’re not presenting until Tuesday, so I have time to practice. I really hate presentations.

“Can you help, please, John?” Maggie sighs. She’s typing away on her laptop, and I wonder from across the table if she’s even working on our project.

He shrugs from behind his phone. “I already know what I’m going to say. Just put some pictures on my slides or something.”

Maggie meets my eye and frowns, and I mirror her expression, for her sake. I’m not actually upset at John because he always gets really good grades and I believe that he actually does know what he’s going to say.

“Oh, you know what, Trin,” Maggie begins, and my fingers pause on my keyboard. “Sorry, you prefer Trinity, don’t you?” I don’t say anything, so Maggie continues. “I was going to ask you about Pearl.”

I blink. “Yeah, what about her?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see John pause his texting.

“Mary Kate saw her and Henry talking the other day. Are they, like, a thing?”

I let out a little laugh. “Oh, no, I don’t think so.”

Maggie leans back in her seat. “Oh. I thought you would know, since you and Pearl have known each other for so long.”

That was a weird statement. Pearl and I have known each other for six years, which is exactly how long I’ve known both Maggie and John. Pearl and I started at Saint Paul’s in third grade, the only two new third-graders that year. Consequently, we became best friends with each other. But that was partially because everyone else already had friends.

“I meant no,” I amend after a moment. “She told me they’re not together.”

“I think they’d be cute,” Maggie says, then turns her attention back to her computer. “Anyway, does this slide look ok?”

. . .

After school Friday, I’m still at my locker when Pearl finds me. “Hey, Trinity!” She’s swinging her backpack at her side instead of wearing it on her back, and I’m wondering if it even has any books in it.

I stuff another textbook into my own backpack, then point at hers. “Are you bringing anything home?”

She just grins. “I got most of it done already. Come on, let’s go ‘study’.” She makes air quotes with her fingers and begins walking down the hall without me.

I double check my locker to make sure I have everything, then weave through a couple of students to catch up with her. We chat idly about school as we walk to the park.

It’s warm today, but not as warm as last week because of a strong, cool breeze. As a result, Pearl’s outfit change today consists of pushed-down socks, shorts, and a soft orange sweater.

She’s pulling it over her uniform blouse as I sit down at our picnic table. “By the way,” I say as a thought pops into my head, “I signed you up to do a reading at the school-wide service next week. Sister Anne will probably tell you again on Monday.”

Pearl doesn’t even have her arms through the sweater’s armholes yet, and she pauses to crinkle her eyebrows together. “You what?”

I shrug. “You’re always presenting school things, and I was in charge of assigning readers. No one wanted to do it, so I put your name down.” I start to frown as I see her expression. “Do you not want to do it?”

She stuffs her hands out the ends of her sweater sleeves. “I’d rather not.”

“Oh.” Suddenly I feel like I’ve done something wrong, but I haven’t, have I? “But why?”

Pearl tugs at her blonde braid, draping it over her shoulder. “I don’t usually participate in… church-related activities.”

“I know that, but just because you don’t believe in God doesn’t mean you can’t do the reading.” I laugh a little and add, “You pretend all the time.”

She tilts her head as she looks at me. “I pretend because I have to,” she says evenly.

I hold back my hair as a gust of wind blows it into my face. “You don’t have to pretend, you know. We all lose faith sometimes, but--”

“But what? You think that’s what this is, that I just ‘lost faith’ and that if I look hard enough, I’ll find it again?” Pearl’s voice isn’t loud, but her tone makes me flinch.

She scoots closer to me on the bench when I don’t say anything. “Sorry. I just… Can you find someone else to do it? I don’t want to.”

I want to tip my head back and sigh, but I don’t. “How am I supposed to explain that to Sister Anne?” I’m running through scenarios in my head, and none of them sound good. (“Sister Anne, Pearl doesn’t want to help.” “Sister Anne, Pearl hates reading.” “Sister Anne, Pearl hates reading and the church, and by extension, probably nuns.”)

Pearl crosses her arms and looks at me like it’s obvious. “Tell her you found someone else that wants to do it.”

“Who?” I ask, aware that my voice is slightly shrill.

“Literally anyone. You could do it,” Pearl says with a wave of her hand in my direction.

I choke out a laugh. “No way. You should just do it. You know I clam up in front of people. You’re great at giving talks and things!” I can’t imagine it being me, not a chance.

Pearl stares at me with her wide eyes, her mouth a line. “When it’s not a service.”

“What, do you hate God that much?” I don’t mean to snap at Pearl, but I do. The wind blows loudly in my ears.

She flings out her arms, and for a moment I think she’s going to storm away and never speak to me again. Instead, she snaps back. “I don’t hate God, I don’t even know if I believe in a God! That’s not what matters. I just don’t like the church.”

Oh. “The people?” I ask quietly.

Her orange sleeves billow in the wind as she lowers her arms, and her voice is steady. “The hypocrisy. So, yes, a lot of the people.” She lets out a laugh, but it’s bitter.

I don’t really understand, but I don’t want to fight with Pearl. “Yeah. Ok. I’ll find someone else to do the reading.”

A small part of me thinks she should just do it anyway, but I squash that feeling. If Pearl doesn’t want to do the reading, then I would track down someone else. Or, if I really had to, I guess I’d do it myself.

.

.

.

(first part: https://theprose.com/post/432343/trinity)

.

(previous part: https://theprose.com/post/432613/trinity-2)

(next part: https://theprose.com/post/433350/trinity-4)

She was a wonderful person. We are all here today to give her the respect she deserves. And as long as we have our memories of her, she will never be gone. She is always going to be in our hearts.

I hope she found the peace she sought.

We have an impact on people's lives all the time, sometimes without even realizing it. With every smile we give or with every hello, we can change a life. And I like to think about the impact she had. And so, she will never be forgotten, and even though she saw herself as replaceable and irrelevant, I know that she wasn't. We all know that she at some point helped us to become who we are today. And that alone makes her irreplacable, not to speak of all the lives we don't even know that she had an impact on.

Depression is viewed as an attention-seeking behavior. Suicide is a tragedy. We need to wake up! We need to change ourselves. We need to start listening. We need to start getting help. With whatever it is that kills you inside. Ask for help. Be there for each other. Don't let people think that you don't value them until it's too late.

Suicide is sudden. But not for a person who is already suicidal. Suicidal people may have these thoughts for years and keep them to themselves before committing suicide.

But for everyone else, it's the first moment they start to realize it. Pay attention to the people around you. Don't give them the feeling they need to be ashamed or feel like a burden when they don't answer "I'm fine" to the question about how they are.

Learn from this lesson and break the stigma.

May she rest in peace.

A Rose By Any Other Name

When you think about traitors in American history, both Benedict Arnold, and Tokyo Rose may come to mind. But there is a difference between the two—Tokyo Rose never existed. The woman whom most would associate the personification of Tokyo Rose would be Iva Toguri D’Aquino, who broadcasted as “Orphan Ann” on radio Tokyo. Other women may have also claimed the name such as Ruth Hayakawa who did the weekends in place of Iva. Then there is June Suyana, The Nightingale of Nanking, and Myrtle Lipton known as Little Margie.

On A Side Note: Thomas Jefferson wrote the Constitution in 18 days.