I am water,

tap dancing on souls

with ethereal feet,

flowing through veins,

moody and reckless.

Permeating layers

of skinned stone,

plunging membranes

of crystal water.

Moving like silk

through rumpled sheets.

Slow and sweltry tenacity

increasing to throbbing,

fingers of water

urgently touching

dry, fiery river bed.

My flooding waters

can create or destroy,

every drop of me

is your life,

shimmering spirit

of hope.

Turbulence,

racing blindly

in thirsty gulps,

splashes of fine mist

swimming onward,

puddling on skins.

Vagabond drops

of water meandering

boldly to the sea.

                                                    By Paloma Moonjava

                                                                 Chapter One

I was told I would never amount to nothin’. My daddy told me that. My mama never told me nothin’ cuz I never knew my mama. She died when I was in her belly and the doctor had to cut me out. I think that’s why my daddy never really liked me much account of I killed my mama. I think he loved me, but I don’t think he liked me ever. He did love my mama. Sometimes he’d sit and hold the one picture he had of her and look real sad. It was of my mama on a swing danglin’ from ropes on a tree. She was wearin’ a real pretty dress. I think the dress was white and had little green flowers on it. I was never sure account of it was in black and white. More brown and yellow, really. The picture was so old and the way my daddy cried over it, it was all stained and greasy from his hard workin’ hands and his hard cryin’ tears.

But my mama looked real fine. Her dark hair was in pretty waves, framin her face. She had a beautiful smile, showin’ straight teeth. She was wearin’ lipstick in that picture. It was prolly a real pretty shade of red, but it looked black in the old photo. I bet her eyes were brown like mine. I couldn’t never tell for sure and I never asked my daddy. I only know my mama’s name cuz it’s writ on the back of the picture; Althea. Isn’t that prettiest name you ever heard? My daddy gave m the name Marie, after my mama’s middle name, Althea Marie. That’s what is says on the picture. Althea Marie, July 1922. I was born 5 months later, so I was with my mama in that picture. It always made me feel real nice knowin’ I am with her in the only image I ever seen of her. I imagine she was a real nice lady. From her smile, she had to be.

My daddy was from Kentucky and on account of him raisin’ me, I guess that’s how I ended up with a deep southern drawl, just like him. I don’t notice it but I’ve had lotsa people ask me what part of the south I’m from, haha.

I grew up on a hog farm outside a real small town in the middle of Indiana called Langsdale. There was about 300 people livin’ there back then. We was a poor farm town, but we was all real close, like kin. Those of us that weren’t really kin felt like we was. My daddy worked hard and he made me work hard too. He didn’t give one rat’s ass that I was a girl. He made me pull my weight. I got up before sunrise ever’ mornin’ and helped feed all them smelly hogs. I didn’t mind it too much though. You get so used to the smell of that nasty hog shit that you don’t even notice it anymore. I’m sure most days I went around reekin’ of sweat and hogs, but nobody ever said nothin’ cuz we prolly all smelled the same bad way.

I remember one mornin’ it was real cold outside and there was a bad ice storm the night before. I was helpin’ Daddy feed them ol’ smelly hogs and I slipped on some of that frozen hog shit, smackin’ my head real hard on the ground. Next thing I remember I was wakin’ up in my bed with a bag of water on my head. I got up and wandered around the house shouting, “Daddy!” but he wasn’t nowhere to be found. I finally trekked outside, feelin’ real wobbly and disoriented and I found my daddy feedin’ hay to the horses. He said I’d been sleepin’ for two days straight. I asked him if Doc Sharp come to see me and he said, “No, you was alright. Nothing but a big egg on your head. I checked on ya now and then.” He didn’t even care enough about me to call for Doc Sharp or even get me fresh ice for the egg on my head. I had to go on and help him feed the horses. When I was leanin’ over gatherin’ up some salt to scatter for our horses, Peggy, Breezy, Maude and Gable, I got so dizzy I fell over. Daddy had just been headin’ out the barn door to start sloppin’ the hogs when I fell. He dropped his slop bucket, spillin’ it all over, and ran to me. For a second I thought he was gonna help me up, but when he got to me, he just stopped and stared down at me for a second. “Dammit, December Marie!” he didn’t often use my first and middle name, so I knew he was real mad, “Quit bein’ so foolhardy. Get your skinny butt up and finish the feedin’.” So, I finished feedin’ all the livestock by myself while he went in the house, prolly to cry over Mama’s picture.

I spose my daddy was a nice man once. To have a wife as pretty and sweet lookin’ as my mama, he had to be nice and good. I spect my mama was perfect. I spect Daddy may have been perfect before my mama died. Sometimes I imagine the two of ‘em holdin’ hands and laughin’. When I imagine that it makes me real happy, to think my grumpy ol’ daddy was prolly a real fine young man and real happy too. It made me sad to see him cryin’ all over that greasy, grimy picture all the time. I spose his heart was just filled up with loneliness from missin’ my mama. I wish he woulda emptied out some of that missin’ my mama and filled it up with lovin’ me. I woulda really liked that.

My Grammy Maxine raised me from birth to the age of four. She died one night in her sleep. My first real memory is when I woke up one mornin’ and rolled over to give her a big kiss and a hug. I put my lips on her cheek and her cheek was as cold as a naked butt in winter. While I shook her shoulders real hard, I cried, “Grammy, Grammy, why you so cold?” But Grammy didn’t answer me. Her face was gray and her eyes were fixed on the ceilin’. There was a trail of spit comin’ out her mouth, too.

I ran to my daddy’s room and told him somethin’ was wrong with Grammy. When he went and seen her, Daddy simply said, “Well, December Marie,” usin’ my middle name so I knew he was upset. “Her heart just got too sad and weak from missin’ your Mama, on account a you killin; her and all.”

That was how I learned I killed my mama. When I was six years old, I finally got brave and asked my daddy how I killed her. He said I hurt her real bad the whole time I was in her belly. He said when the time came for me to get born she started screamin’ real loud, yellin’ somethin’ was wrong and to hail Doc Sharp. Daddy said by the time he got in town and back to the house with Doc Sharp, Mama was dead, blood all over the bed and herself. Doc Sharp had to cut her belly open and pull me out. He said I screamed and hollered and I was a right disappointment the second I came into this world. He said he didn’t look at me for three weeks after I was born. That was when he sent for my mama’s mama, Grammy Maxine, to live with us. He said til she got there two days after I was born, Mrs. Kendrick from the next farm over took care of me. He said when Grammy Maxine got there, the only thing he did was tell her to call me Marie.

But I don’t think I hurt my mama the whole time like my daddy said. My mama had me in her belly that day on the swing and she looked as happy as a lark. I bet she was excited at the prospect of bein’ a mama; my mama. I think Daddy was just so hurt and sad he wanted me to be hurt and sad too.

                                                        Chapter Two

My daddy married Miss Emma Hall when I was ten years of age. That ol’ Miss Hall was a real bitch. She didn’t care nothin’ for my daddy and she certainly didn’t have love for no step-daughter. That lazy piece of hog manure did nothin’ all day but lay in my daddy’s bed, readin’ some kind a smut stories. I was at the pharmacy one day pickin’ up my daddy some pain arthritis cream when I heard Mrs. Jenkins talkin’ to Ms. Clea Patrick about how smutty Miss Emma Hall was and how “Maxine Potts is probably spinnin’ in her grave if she knows that ungodly woman is raising little Marie. And can you imagine what Althea Marie would think? God rest her sweet, sweet soul.” Mrs. Jenkins didn’t know I heard her. This was one of the very few times in my entire life I ever heard anyone speak my mama’s name. Mrs. Jenkins was a real nice lady and was always very kind to me. It made me happy to hear someone thinkin’ of my mama and my grammy.

Miss Emma never paid no attention to me unless she needed somethin’, like her hair put in curlers or her back washed or her clothes ironed or her breakfast made. If she wanted a ice cold glass of lemonade, I was her best friend.

I can still hear her sayin, “Marie, darlin’, why don’t you make Miss Emma some nice, fresh lemonade?” She said this while she was dressed in some god awful pink lacy nightgown, covered up with a fluffy pink bathrobe, all fat and sprawled out on my daddy’s bed. I never like to use that word, fat, but when you’re as mean and nasty and fat as Miss Emma Hall, you deserve it.

I always made her that damn lemonade. I guess it was so good cuz I gave her some of my own sugar in it, a wad of spit fresh from my mouth. If she’d a known, haha. I woulda love to seen her face if I ever told her.

Miss Emma had a nasty habit of strikin’ me across the face for no good reason. She’d give me a good slap because her mashed potatoes was cold, or if I didn’t get all the ironing done to her liking. She once smacked me across the face with the smutty book she was readin’ just because her bath water was a bit too frigid, and boy, that smut book across my ten year old face hurt somethin’ awful. She never did this when my daddy was around. She knew I’d never tell him and she prolly thought he wouldn’t do nothin’ if I did tell him. My daddy never one time struck me, though. He might not a liked me much, but he was above hittin’ a girl.

One day I was bringin’ in fire wood for our wood stove. It was a terrible cold day outside and I had been workin’ hard out in a near blizzard since before sunrise. Miss Emma Hall had been sittin’ on her fat fanny in front of the hot wood stove all day, the fire goin’ only cuz I had to come in ever’ now and then and stoke it. Well, shame on me, I trekked in some snow and mud on the clean floor, the floor I mopped that very mornin’ and Fat Fanny Miss Emma Hall had a conniption! You'd thunk I spilled hog shit all over her smut books!

Sabrina stared at the old Polaroid in her hand. In it, a beautiful lakeside home winked back at her. Its siding a cheery yellow trimmed in a white so pure it looked like icing on a birthday cake. It seemed fitting that she would wake up in a place like that, considering tomorrow was her thirtieth birthday.

She had been dreading thirty for some time now. Especially since she lost her job, a position she held for almost four years where she busted her ass to get ahead, but only ended up further and further behind her peers. Her days were spent getting side eyed by her chauvinistic boss, passed over for opportunities, and feeling like an absolute failure. On top of that, she was single after a passionate, but rocky, relationship. In truth, she had known things with Jax were doomed—come on his name was Jax for crying out loud—but she liked his tattoos and eyebrow scar too much to turn him down. But when she discovered that no one was turning him down, not even her best—well, ex-best—friend, she officially called it quits. Those two could have each other as far as she was concerned.

Sabrina was a free agent. She didn't need a man. She didn't need a best friend. And she didn't need a job. Well, that wasn't true at all, she did need a job, and pretty damn soon actually. That was going to become a very harsh reality if she didn't do something. When the attorney contacted her about her great aunt Agatha's last will and testament, it felt like a sign. A gorgeous-two-level-original-hardwood-flooring-private-beach-access-sign.

She inherited a lake house. Her prayers had been answered. Her plan was to drive out to the house, spend the night, assess the property and put it up for sale. She'd turn a nice profit and her financial crisis would be abated while she found her new career path.

Turns out her shitty luck wasn't actually changing after all.

Sabrina lowered the Polaroid and glared at the hellish reality that stared back at her. The charming yellow cottage, with the delicate white trim, was a lie. The monstrosity that stood before her looked like the yellowed teeth of a rotted cadaver. The upper floor windows were busted and boarded over and the front porch, so sweet in the photograph with its swing and hanging plants, looked like it was about to give way under even the lightest of breezes.

"You have to be fucking kidding me," Sabrina grumbled. She flicked the photo onto the driver's seat of her beat up Grand Am and wrestled her duffle bag out of the backseat. Hoisting the bag over her shoulder she turned and screamed as she was face to face with an obese, grey haired, sallow eyed man. He screamed back at her and held his hand to his chest.

"Mr. Treeger?" Sabrina asked when her heart finally left her throat and rested in its usual place. It was the lawyer that had contacted her about her aunt's will. He looked much older than she was expecting.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he replied, bending to rest his hands on his knees. Sabrina worried he was having a heart attack. She really didn't need involuntary manslaughter added to her list of bad luck. Also she didn't want this man to die, of course.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "You just scared the shit out of me."

"You and me both." He stood to his full height, looked to the sky, and took a deep breath. When his attention returned to her, his eyes fell on the bag she carried. "Are you staying here tonight?" He asked his eyebrows rising in surprise.

Sabrina shrugged. "That's the plan. Though, to be honest, I was expecting something a little more...well, more." She said.

Mr. Treeger turned to look at the lake house and sighed. "Yes, well...it certainly has potential, doesn't it? Just look at that view."

Sabrina was going to argue, but her eyes finally rested on the lake and, she had to admit, it was pretty spectacular. The white caps rolled along the water's surface, toward the sandy shore, as birds rode the breeze. It suddenly seemed so familiar to her. Images and sensations assaulted her brain like camera flashes. Feeling his warm fingers entwine with hers. Watching a small girl build a sandcastle. Looking down at her toes dipping into the wet sand as the water washes them clean. Staring out into the dark water, oddly calm in the moonlight, but warm as a fresh drawn bath.

"Miss Delacort, are you alright?" She jolted back to reality when Mr. Treeger addressed her. She realized she was crying and hastily wiped the tear from her cheek.

"I'm fine. The wind just blew something into my eye. Most likely from this heap." She turned her attention back to the house. Anything to avoid looking out at the lake.

"Yes, well..." Treeger rummaged around in his pocket until he produced a set of keys. "Here you are. The electricity does work, as does the water, don't let it fool you. Just bang on the pipes a little to get it flowing." He pressed the key into her waiting palm and stared into her eyes a little longer than necessary. "My you do look like her, don't you?" He whispered.

"Like who?" She asked.

"What?" He replied looking startled at her question.

"You said I looked like her. Her who? Agatha?"

"Oh just rambling. I've had a long day and I really must be going. Please enjoy the house and remember just give the pipes a good what-for if needed."

And, with that, he was in his car and heading down the red dirt path, kicking up dust along the way.

     Rome. 2016, March. Hadn't seen him since the '90s. Drunk on being away from the States, drunk on red and white wine, and a stomach gorged with in-house pasta, bread, and anything else I could get my hands on. Alley, restaurant. Trevi fountain checked off. Young Italian girls waving Americans in to their restaurants. A brothel feel. I want to go into the story about the two Italians fighting over the check. The owner and a drunk patron. I want to go into the gelato after, the air of Rome, the bricks of the alleys. But I can't. Rare to see this profile written in first person, but this is different. Like Rome is different. Lost there. Must gaze upon the Pantheon during the first rays of moonlight. 

Lost there. Around a blind corner I nearly walked into Cornell. The man was tall. I'm 6'1 and he loomed over me. We glanced at each other, I registered the situation, and kept moving. GPS called me a moron in code, so I followed Cornell and his wife, and their little girl. I wasn't listening but I was. He was telling his girl about how life is in Italy. I heard, "In Italy..." then the crowd around us absorbed the rest. A few people took fast second looks, and then went back to their tables, their drinks, their own trips and lives.

     In Rome no one cares who you are. 

     Quite a beautiful feeling.    

     Rome is different.

    Crossing back toward where I had to go. Losing light. The Sun becoming the Moon, and I'm standing there then, staring at the street that I would cross to my hotel, to give up, but I'm feeling too fine, and I'm in Rome. I'm in fucking ROME. Not to sound incredulous. I put my phone to my ear to hear the directions, looked down the street. Cornell. Giving me a skeptical but not-so-sure stare, a sideways check. It would appear I was following them, but I wasn't. It didn't bother me. I laughed ahead. Rome is different. He disappeared down the street with his family, and I realized I'd been going the right way the whole time. Turned back, walked and thought about it. I could have had a conversation with him, I could have dropped one name. His parents lived next door to my friend's parents here in West Seattle. He'd skated with Cornell, and once told me he and his parents would watch Cornell mowing his parents' lawn from upstairs, even after Soundgarden took off. We could have had a conversation away from the music, the words, just two dudes from here laughing about the suddenness of meeting in Rome with such far-reaching connections to the past. What stopped me from shaking his hand? I would like to fall back on ego, but it was only ego in the sense that I didn't want to be a fan, a number, even with a rare connection. 

     But the truth is I am a fan. And though I don't believe in regretting something you've already done, I should have shaken his hand. I didn't have to tell him that his lyrics were brilliant, his voice one of the most distinctive in all remembered time, or any of that bullshit people like him, the few of them, hear and have to deflect or appropriate when they're out in the world. I also simply didn't want to interrupt him or his family while they walked in peace as the Moon rose over Rome. 

     I found the Pantheon, young moonlight. Breath stolen. 

     This morning I awoke to a text from my buddy, Dave. Four words and an abbreviation: Dude, Chris Cornell died. WTF?

     Tap google. 52. Suspected suicide. No matter, he's gone. They all go, they don't live long enough to see themselves shine like the rest see them. And they don't care. Sitting here now, blasting Louder Than Love, and sending my best thoughts to his family. 

     Bukowski once said in a letter, "Death isn't a problem for the deceased, it's a problem for the living." Or something like that. Looking back on the dead artists of the last few years, Cornell hits pretty hard. 52 years old.

     Much love to his people. Hands All Over just started. I need more coffee, and to kiss my dogs. 

     Outside it's grey and bright and warm. 

By Bruce Pollock

  -1-    

It wasn’t enough that the man seated across the table from me looked like Dracula’s father making a withdrawal at the blood bank. But here it was the steamy middle of August and he wore a wool jacket and a yellow bow tie. His thinning hair was slicked back like he was posing for the cover of Undertaker’s Monthly. When we first met he stood so close to me I could smell the mothballs on his suit and the meatballs on his breath. I clammed up and barely nodded a greeting. Older men in general creep me out, especially figures of so-called authority. My coach on the track team, for instance, the time I caught him leaving our bathroom dressed only in my mother’s big white towel, souvenir of her lost weekend at a hotel in Atlantic City. I mean, what was there to say?

Adding to the creepiness of the day, I’d come up on the bus to the tiny campus of Shoal College on the Eastern tip of Long Island because they’d given me a full scholarship for their exclusive and expensive three-day program on “How to Ace the SATs.” But when the old geezer handed me a sheet of paper with my “program description” on it what I read had nothing to do with acing the SATS, or anything close.

“Founded on the historical precepts of behavioral psychology and based on cutting edge time travel techniques this new and exciting course affords the student the opportunity to relive and rewrite up to three days from his or her past and with each successful trip evolve into a more fully realized human being. Highly classified. DO NOT DISCUSS WITH ANYONE.”      

I stared at my rumpled advisor and looked him straight in the eye, trying my best to smile politely, always a challenge in my case. “Are you serious?” I said.

“This course may not be what you expected, son, but it definitely works, if that’s what you’re worried about,” the man said. “Trust me, it’s been in the developmental stages for quite some time.”

 I hadn’t trusted a man since my father disappeared ten years before. And I especially didn’t trust anyone who called me son. “What do you mean developmental stages?” I said as I rose to my feet. “Are you saying this has never been tried on an actual human being?”

The old gent came out from behind his desk. He put his hand on my shoulder. For a second I felt warm and trusting and secure. Or maybe I’d just been hypnotized. “Isn’t there a day or two out of your life you’d like to change, and in so doing, change everything?” he said.

I’d always been a firm believer in miracles, past lives, magical thinking, signs, omens, good luck charms, and winning the lottery. I was a devoted fan of time-travel movies since the age of ten. Yet all I could hear inside my head was my mother’s voice, repeating one of her favorite comebacks to my more optimistic plans. “If it’s too good to be true, then it probably isn’t” came to mind. Along with “be careful what you wish for.”

“I can’t even…” I mumbled.

“Any other questions before we proceed?” said the man, whose name tag identified him as Clarence Bowly.

Every nerve in my body was urging me to bolt. If I could just make it through the crowded student center to the big double doors, I figured I could summon up my once superior sprinting speed and vanish into the dense shrubbery that ringed the campus. But my legs felt like mashed potatoes. It was my first meet on the track team all over again, when I came in dead last after taking a commanding early lead. The coach got in my face right after it about my lack of guts, will, desire, and whatever else it took to compete. Of course I didn’t have what it took to compete. Competition was something taught to other guys by their fathers, even their divorced fathers. They’d come by every weekend to take them down to the pool hall or the race track or the ball game, or up to their office. How could I compete, anyway, with my mother at home clinging to my leg like a sick, sad puppy? 

Quitting the team a week later the same day she broke up with the goon was so far the best move of my high school career.

Since before I was ten I had known that going off to college, preferably hundreds of miles from Long Island, would probably be the only way I’d ever get out of my house, out of her needy clutches. On the other hand, with my grade point average hovering just above sea level, and my first pass at the SATS underwater, clearly that dream was on life support. 

“I just need to ace the SATs next time I take them,” I tried to remind Mr. Bowly.

“Why put a band aid on a concussion?” he said as his hand pressed deeper into my shoulder blade.

That was kind of insulting. But I didn’t want to yell at the guy. He might have a heart attack on the spot. “I have another question,” I managed to say instead. Bowly was all ears. All large pink hairy ears. “Why me?”

He smiled as he asked me if I remembered a particular series of tests I’d been given in kindergarten. “Not the regular IQ test. This was part of a secret limited initiative we devised to find the most gifted four and five-year-olds in the New York City area. It was funded only for one particular year. Out of the 670 children who took the test, guess whose composite score came out on top?”

“I don’t have a clue.”

Bowly nodded gravely. “Exactly. By the time you reached high school, all the potential you showed at age five had withered away to nothing.”

At seventeen I was already sick of that word potential, as it was used by a succession of school psychologists, guidance counselors, social workers, teachers, the coach of the track team, and my mother. Usually followed by the word wasted. “How would you know that?” I said.

“To justify the experiment, we had to design and maintain a tracking process to keep tabs on certain selected students to see how they progressed through life. While it was too much of a challenge for us to keep a video journal on 600 plus children, following the leader in the clubhouse and a dozen or so runners up proved doable.”

I took a deep breath and nearly fell over. This was getting weirder by the minute. Had someone been spying on me and Abby, I wondered, during those terrible years after the divorce, in all those dismal walkups in Brooklyn, the Bronx and Queens, before we landed face up on Long Island?

“Ah, but it was such a sad thing, seeing how much you deteriorated after your father left.” Bowly said. “While all the others in the study went on to accelerated programs and honors courses, you just kept falling. And then after your father’s misfortune last year, you really plummeted. That’s when we knew we had to step in.”

 Misfortune? How did he find out about Sid Meyer’s “misfortune”? He’d been vacationing in his new house near Mexico City with his second wife and her teenage son, when thieves broke in, shortly after midnight a summer ago, thinking the family was away for the weekend. (Only the wife and her son had left in the morning for Acapulco.) Hearing the commotion, Sid invaded the living room, armed with a golf club. The thieves had guns. One well-aimed bullet ended his life in a flash. The thieves got away clean, with a couple of antique lamps. 

“I don’t believe it,” I had said after scanning the letter Abby showed me from her lawyer.

“Denial is always the first response,” Abby said with her trademark warmth.

No way Sid Meyer could be dead. He was a survivor, like me. “I deny that!”

“Rage is next.” She took down another shot of whatever it was she was drinking that day.

I stomped off to my room, holding the letter. Somehow, until that moment, I’d convinced myself my father would come back to get me, to rescue me from my life with Abby, one step ahead of the landlord, one step behind her latest boyfriend.

Pretending I’d shrugged off this blow, I went through the rest of junior year at South Bay High in a blur of Netflix and computer Scrabble. If my computer Scrabble average could have replaced my grade point average, I’d have been a shoo-in for Yale. 

 “Hello South Bay Community,” Mom hilariously observed after seeing my latest report card.

“Listen,” I said evenly, “if I can’t get into a regular college, then I’d rather ship out with the Norwegian Cruise Lines as a singing busboy.”

“Sounds like fun,” said Abby. “Take me with you.”

“Mom, you’re missing the point.”

“I know. I know. Everybody wants to leave me,” she said, breaking into tears. 

I hated when she resorted to crying, although I should have already been used to it. “I was just kidding,” I said to her, which caused her to stop in mid-sob.

As creepy as it was to think that someone else was tuned in to my situation the whole time, making plans to fix things (by sending me back into the past) maybe it was also a little bit heartwarming.

No, it was mainly just creepy.

“Shall we go?” Bowly asked, but it wasn’t a question. He subtly moved me forward with his hand on my shoulder and I obeyed like I was hypnotized by the scent of his moldy suit.

The spell started wearing off right after he left me at the door to a small auditorium which he locked on the way out. Now I was alone in an otherwise empty room, facing a tiny video monitor, where a young instructor in an oversize black suit started explaining the program.

”The first rule of time travel is,” he said, “You break it, you bought it.”

(A Living Parable)

Once, in a lonely field of beautiful flowers, there stood a single Mighty Oak.

He was strong.

He was tall.

He was majestic.

The only time he spoke was when the wind blew through his branches and the words became a beautiful song.

The birds would sit upon him, singing along.

With his branches reaching for the sky, he spoke to the Creator of his loneliness and he waited patiently for an answer.

One day, the local farmer planted a Cherry Tree near the Mighty Oak.

She was young.

She was fragile.

She was insecure.

She would twitter away with the birds at the slightest breeze and they responded back in song while eating of her fruit.

The Mighty Oak fell in love with the Cherry Tree, knowing she was a gift from his Creator.

He would speak words of encouragement to the Cherry Tree to help her grow.

He would listen patiently to her knowing she was in the process of maturing.

He quietly showed her how to dig her roots deep into the ground and reach to the Sky in songs of joy.

The Cherry Tree found great comfort in the shadow of the Mighty Oak.

She loved him in return, and learned more of the Creator through him.

For many seasons they grew together in that beautiful field of flowers.

They sang with one another.

They talked about the deep mysteries of life with one another.

Their roots became entwined within one another.

One dark day, a mighty storm came.

The rains poured hard and loosened the ground.

As the winds tore through her branches, the Cherry Tree felt she would be blown away.

But as the storm raged against her, she remained anchored to the earth through the roots of the Mighty Oak.

She realized that after so many years together, they had become like a single tree underneath the ground.

Suddenly, the sky cracked and a light flashed.

The Cherry Tree looked up and saw that her Mighty Oak had been struck by lightning, catching on fire.

So she cried out for someone to save the Mighty Oak.

A downpour arose and put out the fire.

The Cherry Tree let out a sigh of relief, thankf ul for the rain.

As the days went by, the Mighty Oak became more and more silent.

His trunk was scarred from the lightning strike and his leaves began falling to the ground.

The breeze would blow through his branches but he no longer sang.

He just bowed in reverence.

So the Cherry Tree sang to him, and the birds came to rest on his branches.

They sang along with the Cherry Tree and it made the Mighty Oak smile inside.

He tried to speak to the Cherry Tree the best he could, though her sadness made it hard for her to listen.

One clear day, the Mighty Oak whispered to the Cherry Tree telling her to trust the Creator in all things.

He told her she had become a strong and courageous tree through the storm.

The Cherry Tree thanked the Mighty Oak for helping her grow, that she would never forget his love for her and teaching her to understand the Creator better.

Then, the Mighty Oak became silent and the birds flew from his branches as he fell to the ground, forever falling asleep.

The Cherry Tree wept quietly, going deeply inward.

Though sadness filled her heart, she still felt the roots of the Mighty Oak intertwined with hers and knew he would forever be a part of her.

There, in that same lonely field of beautiful flowers, the Cherry Tree stood alone for what felt like forever.

She was taller.

She was stronger.

She was quieter.

She whispered when the wind blew through her branches and her words became a soft song of remembrance.

The birds would sit upon her branches and sing along.

She silently cried out in lonliness to the Creator, and she waited patiently for an answer.

One quiet and sunny day, she saw the local farmer come up the side of the hill.

A song of thankfulness started to rise within her, even though she was uncertain of what the future might hold.

She knew that, whatever the farmer planted, their roots would grow together and she would pass on the message of love embedded within her by the Mighty Oak.

     It’s true. 

     Shots of bourbon in our coffee lead to reverence for you in the voice of Neruda.

     Where to begin? Does anyone who asks that question not know where to begin?

     We’ll start.

     Swift but graceful changes here at Prose. Our coder, while also knee-deep in slaying dragons and winning digital hills on rendered battlefields, is working on new features as this is being typed. Keep your eyes peeled. In another change, call it a red sun rising, we’re taking the app to 18 and over after the next update. Any young guns existing won’t need to worry, and should anyone under 18 sneak past the doorman and smooth-talk the bartender into a drink with no ID then you probably belong here, anyway. 

     Many more things to appear on the horizon.

     Stay tuned. Stay hungry.

As I had dressed earlier that morning to prepare for my wedding, my grandmother explained to me the inner workings of the bridal chamber. "It doesn't have to hurt Elsy, if ye sing your song and make it yer hearts desire."

My troubles went far beyond the virgin pains of the wedding night. I could not imagine that I could ever love a child if I did not love the child's father. I was scared senseless to ever become a mother. I had no younger brothers or sisters to speak of; I did not think a speck of motherly instinct dwelled in any part of my being. I once witnessed a baby goat being born and I thought to myself, how on earth could anyone love that slimy looking rodent? I longed to have siblings but I knew it was never a possibility, because after my mother's death, my father never married again. I was his most prized possession, the product of true love. How could I dishonor the sacredness of my conception by conceiving a child with a man I would never love?

 A pivotal night in the memories of my childhood was during a raid of the Barbary pirates on our village. My grandmother and I hid in the cellar of the farmhouse; she knew that a child of my unique beauty would sell for quite a high price into slavery. In a calm and quiet voice she whispered to me "my wee lassie ye sing now. Think only ye heart’s desire and it will be so." Obediently I sang the familiar lullaby that my grandmother had sung to me every night from infancy, she hummed along with me. Grandmother kept both arms around me rocking me gently as I sang, comforting not only me but I imagine, herself as well. With each note, I imagined the Pirates simply turning around, walking back to their boat, and sailing far away. We could hear the horses fast approaching our barn, but all at once, the noise stopped. My grandmother and I waited in the cellar until dawn the next day. The small window above our heads where we sat crouched in the cellar finally let in the first light of morning. We went out of the house and were astonished to see six unfamiliar horses grazing, in front of our barn. 

We heard variations of what was witnessed that night from the villagers. Six Pirates walked back through the village toward the dock in a trance like state, walking directly into the sea and drowned themselves. My grandmother would tell me that my song had sung of them away, the sound of my voice carried on the wind in the light of the full moon. I chose to believe that this was how my grandmother comforted me that night, to distract me from the impending doom that awaited us. However, I could not deny the fact that for whatever mysterious reason, the Pirates had dismounted the horses and simply walked away to their death.

Six years later, while on a merchant voyage to the Mediterranean in 1803 my father’s boat was overtaken by Pirates. My father was murdered, as was the majority of his crew, some I heard, were sold into slavery, I was 11 years old.

My Grandfather, the Duke of Essex, made arrangements with Grannie for the two of us to come and live with him at Daffyn House.  Granddad was as Jolly and kind as Saint Nick, having softened in his old age. Grannie and Granddad made every effort to give me stability and love. Despite the odd trio we became, we laughed easily. Grannie and Granddad were completely opposite in almost every way, views on politics, ideals, their temperament – but what they had in common was their love for me. He doted on me, the exact replica of his beloved late wife and daughter. Granddad, deemed me in need of an advantageous marriage for his own reasons, He never forgave himself for cutting off his one and only child, my mother. In the event of his wife’s death he disregarded the iron clad rules of propriety. Over the past 10 years that I have lived in Essex, I had become the epitome of a proper English lady by my ripe old age of 21. My Grannie was the only glimpse that I had back into my former beloved life in Scotland, of who I truly was.

As my thoughts came back to the present happenings of the room around me I realized it was time. In my most convincing accent reflecting nobility I chimed my glass with the nearby spoon and clearly stated, "I have promised a song for my new husband and a song I shall sing."

The haunting melody began to flow from my lungs smooth and warm and inviting like the whiskey in my glass.

As I walked forth one summer’s day,

To view the meadows green and gay

A pleasant bower I espied

Standing fast by the river side…

Every eye in the room was upon me, I had them all at my beckoning. I began to feel my nerves push in; having this much power was terrifying. I had to stay focused in this moment…. My hearts desire, my hearts desire...I began to repeat it over and over in my mind...may my womb never be blessed with a child from this Union... May my womb never be blessed with a child from this union… Let it be so, let it be so… as the final words were sung the room remained quiet momentarily entranced.

When she had fill’d her apron full

Of such green things as she could cull,

The green things served her for her bed,

The flow’rs were the pillows for her head;

Then down she laid her, ne’er more did speak;

Alas! Alas! With love her heart did break.

What seemed like hours was only seconds before an uproar of clapping and cheering began. Frederick’s eyes were locked on mine, glazed from trance and drink. My mild shudder went unnoticed to our guests, the melancholy connotation of my chosen song went amiss to all but me. Grannie gave me a nod and a knowing smile as if to say, “Well done wee lassie, well done.”

My job was finished I could only hope that all of the myths and legends my grandmother told me were true, that my singing voice really did hold a magical power…and if it didn't I had better drink up.

It was three hours past midnight when Sir Frederick entered my room in his robe. He was a kindly enough gentleman albeit cocky and boisterous. A score and one year elder, marrying him would not have been my first choice, had there been any choice to begin with. A tall and gangly man he was, with a face so pale that under any sort of excitement the bright purple and blue veins in his neck almost seem to burst through his translucent skin. His reddish blond hair not quite as vibrant as my own and feathered with white as well was his impeccably groomed mustache. He looked like he could have been my father rather than husband. He was born of the most noble and advantageous circumstance. Growing up in the Kings court made him to be a quite the eligible bachelor with the money and connections he was born with. Frederick was the sole heir to the Daffyn House estate. Having met him at the young age of 12 I knew right from the start that he was quite infatuated with me. He was never inappropriate towards me, always a gentleman. I knew that my granddad and Frederick had planned our betrothal many years prior. They assumed me unaware of this arrangement and I gladly allowed this misunderstanding so that I could pretend as though it was not my fate. Nonetheless it was my duty, to honor my loved ones that had died and to provide for the one still living.

"Good evening my lovely wife I trust you have had a pleasant evening?"

"Yes Frederick thank you." I could feel my hand beginning to tremble as he walked closer to the bed where I sat.

"Mary Helen you must know that I will be gentle, and I will cherish you, every part of you."

I couldn't speak but I leaned over to blow out the candle on the table next to the bed. One candle remained lit on the dressing table but it was dark enough that I felt like I had a bit of a place to hide.

He leaned over and kissed me and I forced myself to kiss him back, it wasn't unpleasant. Frederick’s mouth was warm and smelled of Whiskey and tobacco. His mustache tickled my top lip, standing up he removed his robe and revealed his long and lanky body. His pale skin taught over his sinewy muscles. Not completely terrible to look at, but I had nothing to compare him to having never seen a naked man before. Looking down I could see that he was aroused. I blushed at the oddity and foreign shape of the male member.

"There is a way to get a woman ready for when she has not been with a man before. I'm going to put my mouth between your legs."

Slightly taken aback, I picked up my goblet of Whiskey from the bedside table and downed what remained. Fredrick chuckled. I allowed him to lean me back against my pillows and slowly opened my quivering legs, then gently slid up my nightdress. I was thankful that I didn't have to look him in the eye for a few more moments, I was so nervous. The sensation of his mouth was heated and enjoyable, I trembled as his tongue flicked back-and-forth and I felt myself becoming aroused. Using his fingers he entered me, massaging and loosening my virginity. I was breathless, but not in pain. Frederick decided after a few more moments his work had sufficed. He began to kiss up the side of my navel, stopping to caress my breasts and pay homage. I could feel his firmness as he breathed, “I'm going to begin.” I opened my legs and let them fall apart to give him my blessing. He entered and I gasped. It stung a bit. Slowly thrusting in and barely out. Once, twice, three times...

"I will go slowly just say the word and I can stop."

I couldn't say a word not even a peep.

Four times…five times…

I didn't realize I was holding my breath until the pressure inside me suddenly stopped. He had gone limp. He jolted upright to his knees grabbing his robe saying, "If you'll excuse me...I'm so sorry” muttering to himself as he left the room, he closed the door behind him. I was dumbstruck, sprawled across my marriage bed, deflowered and alone. I curled into myself and I wept for a long time.

~~~~~

My weeping turned to sniffling and soft hiccups as I began to consider the obvious. The song.

The flow’rs were the pillows for her head;

Then down she laid her, ne’er more did speak;

Alas! Alas! With love her heart did break.

The song I sang had done this. I thought it would make me barren but I suppose I didn't consider it would make sir Fredrick impotent. Was I able to conceive? I guess I would never know, for it was not likely that Sir Frederick would ever approach me in this way again having already taken a deafening blow to his ego. Too tired to think anymore I drifted off to sleep.

   I can be obsessive but I’m not one to easily become infatuated. Despite that fact, Adrian Loose’s gorgeous hazels leave a searing impression. It’s been over an hour since the thirty-year-old rocker and I first locked eyes yet there he remains in my mind. Forever embedded as waves of mesmerizing gold, green and auburn paradise. The colors weave through my sparking imagination and send a deep buzz through my whole body. Worst timing ever.

   All I want is a successful show. To make that reality, focus is the only lover I need. Besides, Adrian is dating a diamond studded movie star, lucky her, lucky him.

I turn to check the digital clock on the back wall. Showtime was in less than ten minutes. I breathe in deeply and take a glimpse back at my fellow Victoria Secret angels. Dark waves, blonde curls, high cheekbones, slender bodies, toned muscles, none a day over thirty. Some sway their hips to an imaginary beat, others pop out their legs, toss their manes and snap streams of endless selfies. Plastic. As much as I want to ignore the fact, that’s exactly what we are. A parade of contrived perfection, the earthly definition of an angel, the closest to flawless mankind can attain. Women envy us, men lust after us. Millions look to us as though we are heaven come to earth, yet our stories are not fairy tales. Perching on a flat, cold, hard pedestal can hurt. Yes, we hurt. We sacrifice and pay dearly and yep, we bleed. I know this for a fact. My right toe is gushing as we speak. I bend down to conceal it and stop the bleeding. Monica Snow, fellow angel and drama queen of the century, gasps a lot louder than necessary.

   “Kare, what happened to your toe? Ow!”

   “It’s nothing. I probably just bumped it.”

   “It needs to be wrapped!” I start to protest, it has been a climb to the top and I don’t want to cause trouble. The only piece of advice my mother, an ex-supermodel, gave me was to never leave a producer with a reason to give me the boot. Much to my mother’s chagrin, my actor father was a lot more open about the ins of showbiz. He told me to be kind, sweet, compliant and do what the director of the show wanted. Always. Well, so far so good. But that perfect image was about to be ruined by a bikini clad string bean. Monica waved her bedazzled arm in the air.

   “First aid!”

   “Monica, please. I don’t…”

She ignores me, her eyes wide as she strains to get someone’s attention. “First aid! First aid! Good, oh good! Here comes someone.”

   I plant my hands on my hips and glare. “My God, Monica, I’m fine. Please!”

Her blue eyes turned icy as she backed into a circle of other girls. “Woah, sorry.” I turn away from the eyes watching me and face the stage. I want to apologize. That came out so wrong, no matter how hard I tried to fit the perfect mold, it never worked. Mom was right, I should have stayed out. Even though I finally looked like I belonged, the industry wasn’t made for me.

A woman with a blinking blue headpiece rushes in to inspect my foot. Her name tag reads “Patricia”. A loud, voice hollers from somewhere backstage, “alright ladies, five minutes before show time! This is it! Five minutes!” Patricia’s sharp eyes dart from my foot to my face.

   “What the hell happened?”

   “Not sure.” Yeah, that was a lie. I knew. The super high heels they forced me to wear at the five-hour rehearsal had rubbed my flesh chicken skin raw. When they handed me today’s pair of crème-du-la-torture I didn’t dare protest. I slipped them on and “boom” the scab popped off. The woman’s tinted lips pull back, her eyebrows lift but not too far. Botox. Plastic.

   She pats down her silky pockets. “I’ll try to find a see-through bandage.”

The voice hollers again. “Ladies who need help with wardrobe, just let Patricia know, she’s back!”

   “Dammit Clark.” Patricia shoved a chunk of choppy blond hair behind her ear and took off in a whirlwind of expensive fabric. The smell of exotic flowers and dark notes of vanilla tangle with the scent of hairspray and heated hair. I glanced at the line of Victoria Secret models standing a couple paces behind me.

   Most keep their eyes closed. Their wings flutter as they draw their breaths in slowly, calming themselves. Was it true that the immortal could be nerve-wracked? Did goddesses work hard to earn respect and work to keep it? Apparently. We had sacrificed freedom, bared our bodies, strut for men three times our age and here we all are. Chosen by the prestigious, lauded individuals who deemed us worthy enough to walk the God ordained show of fashion. It was our time to shine, to show the world how beautiful, perfect and valuable we are. To make normal women feel like they don’t measure up like they aren’t worth a man’s attention. Ironically, I feel the furthest thing from an unshakeable goddess.    I despise the person I have become, beautiful on the outside but inwardly so unsatisfied. Apparently, plastic wings can’t hoist me above and away from the hideous imperfection dwelling within. My mouth is dry. My stomach is twisting into thick knots. Nausea sweeps over me in waves. I can’t help but wonder what the point of all of this really is. The voice screams again. So shrill.

   “Two minutes!”

Patricia books it towards me, almost knocking over two crew members in the process.          “Take the shoe off!” She hollers from a distance. I hesitate. Rude. She stands in front of me and looks up at me, her face beat red.

   “I’m sorry. But please hurry. Hurry!” I step out of my stringy shoe and wait as she administers the bandage. The lights above us dim slowly. Waves of anticipating screams rise from the audience. Millions would be watching at home, their eyes glued to computer and television screens. Nausea. I can hear my heart in my ears. A loud thumping sound washes over the stadium, all falls silent. I hold my breath. Thump. Thump. Thump.

   “Ladies and gentlemen, Adrian Loose!”

Adrian’s smooth voice trills as it booms through the speakers. “Just shoot for my heart if it feels right… one life baby it’s yours better do it right.” A suited man stands beside me, black earpiece tightly wrapped around the outer lobe. His beefy hands press into the ear piece. My foot aches as Patricia finishes stretching the bandage over the wounded area. The suited man speaks.

   “Karis Burdett, you’re on. In three, two, one.” I launch myself away from Patricia and towards the runway. Nope. My ankle dips to the right. I quickly snap it back. The cameras probably caught that. I beam despite the pain and give the audience one less thing to criticize later. Opening the show was a huge deal that many would kill for. I needed to pull my performance together with the cards I have left.

The main stage tonight far outshines how it had looked at rehearsal. Awash with blue, purple and green, the colors of the sea and decorated with large, glass pillars. Utopian, Atlantis. A place with no wars or fighting, no disease or disputed presidencies. Only the best of the best rule here, the stuff of legend, the immortal. At least that’s what the tabloids, star news, and fashion lines scream. Too bad the average person couldn’t plunge beyond the aquamarine mascaraed and into the ocean filled with plastic, plastic, plastic. This deep-sea world is so different from what I imagined. Yet the ambiance is still just as enthralling as the day I started. So confusing.

   The handsome pop-star stands at the back of the stage, his gaze washes over me as I strut forward. He locks eyes with me again. I can’t help but be taken aback. The heated buzz I felt an hour ago, returns. It amplifies as he walks towards me and reaches for my hand. I take it. The crowd roars. Rumors will be buzzing tomorrow but who cares? This is show business. This is what the media wants. Publicity is how we make the money.

Adrian’s voice dips dangerously low then soars to new heights. “Girl, I found you. Finally, you’re here… shooting to those stars, why don’t we disappear into the night, together.” As we walk together, I notice his hands are warm and soft. Security. Something I hadn’t had since dad left. But Adrian has a girlfriend! How dare I hold his hand! He releases me as I near the end of the runway. I pause at the end, toss my glittery dress, twist my hips right then left, seek approval from the crowd. Am I good enough? Am I good enough? Cameras snap continuously. My eyes wander over the packed seats, gauging expressions. My attention settles on a young girl with a long ponytail. Her eyes wide.

   She reminds me so much of me at that age. Innocent, young, unsuspecting and unaware of the dangers of the stage. I flash a smile in her direction, wave like a queen then strut back down the walk. The crowd erupts with applause. I feel the warmth of million of eyes as they scan me up and down. Adrian winks. I flash a bright grin. The buzzing continues. I disappear behind the curtain, enshrouded by the lie of perfection. If only I could disappear from myself.

Hey kids, we have to leave real soon,

Clean up your room sometime before noon.

I will be downstairs in the kitchen cleaning the dishes,

Please do everything I asked, especially your mother's wishes.

I gaze out the window to see our neighbors dog named Brown,

He would always come over and play but he just went under his favorite tree to lay down.

Something didn't seem right with him so I went outside,

He seemed to whimper a little and wanted to hide.

I told the kids, I will be back as I had to take Brown back down the road,

I grabbed a rope from the shed because he was a heavy load.

I headed down the road and nearing his owner's home, I gasp for air,

The house looked abandoned, grass two feet tall and weeds everywhere.

Brown was left behind, and all I could see was a sign that said foreclosed,

I felt so sad that I couldn't do anything and I felt tingling in my toes.

"Brown, buddy, I have to keep you here for now because I have to leave,

I can't do anything at this moment but only believe."

I ran back down the road and the kids were stacked in the car,

Sorry I am late everyone, we won't have to travel too far.

"What happened to Brown and is he alright Lilly asked"?

"Yes, he is fine sweetheart," as I try to find my inner mask.

Kids, I hope your school play goes really well and I know you will impress,

Our little girls are looking so cute and mommy picked out their style of dress.

We arrived on time for this school play,

I'm still thinking about Brown from what happened earlier today.

I made a quick phone call to see if I could contact the owner of Brown,

Hearing, "This phone is no longer in service," my eyes started to drown.

Time elapsed and the play was about to begin,

The parents in the audience look around and grin.

The play begins as the kids try and remember their lines,

So many costumes and great scenery made with real vines.

Kids crawling around the stage in some kind of direction,

I turn to my wife, give her a kiss and admire her reflection.

The play was over and now all the kids are running around,

Parents scattering and picking up their little ones from being on the ground.

"Hey guys, let's go home. Mommy and I are so proud,"

Driving away, looking into the sky filled with the moon and maybe a cloud.

Back home kids, let's go upstairs and get ready for bed,

Mommy and I will be up soon to place kisses upon your heads.

"It's getting late honey, I will meet you in the bed,

So many thoughts from my day are running wild through my head."

I step outside to sit for a few minutes on the deck,

Swatting a few mosquitoes that wanted to swarm my neck.

Thinking about Brown and if he was alight,

Hoping he would be okay if i didn't check on him tonight.

I left a few outside lights on as I headed up to bed,

Wondering what Brown is doing all alone and that never left my head.

"Hey baby, I am so tired and my eyes are blood shot red,"

I brushed my teeth, fell on the mattress and I felt dead.

Gone into a coma, my night seized,

Woke up a few times listening to my kids sneeze.

Dreams occurred all through the night,

Some scary and some put my in complete fright.

Several hours later, I am awakened to a dog barking outside of my home,

I scamper to the window, look outside to see Brown is barking outside alone.

I raise the window as Brown's barking is extremely loud,

Looking above my head to see flames shooting off my roof with a smoke cloud.

Yelling at the top of my lungs, GET UP, EVERYONE! the house is engulfed in flames,

Blood is surging through my body calling out everyone's names.

The kids are crying, running towards us in panic and fear,

My wife and I scoop them up in our arms shedding some tears.

Running through the halls trying to escape to the front door,

"Daddy, I am scared rang through my ears some more."

We made it outside of out home, several yards away,

Brown running towards us heading our way.

Brown leaps into our arms huddled together and almost licks the skin off our face,

Watching our home burn, ashes flying through the air into space.

Fire engines blaring into the night stirring up all the resting,

Spooking a few birds that are nearby nesting.

Police, fire, and ambulances arrive on the scene, 

Sitting here watching everything happening in the grass which earlier was green.

The chief took information from us as the police and fire assessed the situation,

Our kids with Brown in their laps looking with anticipation.

An hour later after the fire was out, battalion chief Mr. Knight gave us the news,

"Sir, ma'am and kids, you are all lucky that you might only have a bruise."

"Sir, is that your dog"? "No, it was our neighbors down the street,"

"Well sir, you might want to get really acquainted and try to meet."

"None of your four smoke detectors were working in your home,

If anything at all, you should be thankful that this dog named Brown wanted to roam.

Without him barking out your window, this could of been a tragic event,"

We all looked at each other with our minds, and bodies completely spent.

The whole family surrounded this dog hero named Brown,

Weeping so hard tears flying all over the ground.

Lucky to be alive from this hero named Brown,

If it wasn't for him, we would be six feet in the ground! 

Everyone tired and emotionally broken down upon our knees,

The kids locked around Brown saying,

"He needs a loving home, can we keep him DADDY! PLEASE"?   

K.J.A (c)2017