Last night our dancing went unseen

amidst this forest made of green.

We laughed and muddied up our feet.

Each wildling moment bright and sweet.

The insects too, were gathered there,

both on the ground and in the air,

and all the creatures of the night

proclaimed their ballads of delight.

Our lady moon she too came down,

each verdant branch her hair unbound.

And where her laughter echoed near

was said all sorrow disappeared.

And when at last time came for dawn,

each wildling heart discreetly gone,

only silence knew what came unseen

unto this forest made of green.

It had been twenty years.

Late afternoon light

filtered through the filmy drapes

as my mother propped the stereo on the table

My Father’s voice.

How could I have forgotten?

Sitting in the church pews.

Bathing in the summer heat.

A hundred faces tilted toward heaven next to mine.

And my father,

Steaming in the pulpit.

His brow creased.

His head raised.

His kerchief poised.

Voice rolling through the rafters like thunder.

Every creak,

every groan,

every cough, sigh,

every baby's cry.

Hushed…

How could I have forgotten?

His voice,

laced with the bitter flavor of Virginia.

The way he lifted every word

only to lower it like a golden crown.

How his words echoed

seemingly on and on…

The tape stopped.

I searched for air.

It had been twenty years.

My mother,

her small dark hands

so familiar with a piano,

rested on the table.

They fluttered gently,

as if some soft veil lay between us

and on the other side,

my father.

Family Album (Revised)

(trigger warning)

Love is not a finite resource?

Desperate, she quickened her steps but could barely keep ahead of The Bully and the crowd of kids from her school who were closing in on her. “I’m not going to make it home”, she thought frantically. She tried to move quicker. Someone grabbed the back of her hair.

Love is not a finite resource?

He stared into the mirror. The large scar that painted his right cheek like an exploded plum had almost faded. A tightness in his chest, so long present he barely acknowledged it anymore, loosened by a hair. His older brother had given it to him several years ago when he sprayed him in the face with a keyboard cleaner of compressed air. His hand came up to touch it.

Love is not a finite resource?

It was 2 a.m. She tried to go back to sleep but the phone kept ringing repeatedly. She had turned the ringer off, but she could still hear it in her head. Still see the red-light blinking. By the sound of her voice her daughter was high again and she wanted money. She gave up on trying to sleep. She knew what was coming next. There was a pounding on the front door and then the bell started ringing.

Love is not a finite resource?

He tried to be a good son. But he had a family now, children. He had to set boundaries. He couldn’t let the craziness in his mom’s house touch his. There would have to be some distance.

Love is not a finite resource?

She turned up the volume on her headphones. Her mom, her grandma and her auntie were arguing again. She didn’t understand what it was about, but they all got very loud and very angry. Sometimes grandma ended up crying or mom left for days. Sometimes the police came. They were right outside her door now. She turned the volume up again.

Love is not a finite resource?

She had had a lot to drink at the party and was just coming out of the bathroom when someone grabbed her and shoved her onto a bed in a dark room. She could smell the liquor on their breath even though their hand on her mouth made it hard to breathe. It also stifled her screams. They began rifling under her skirt and she started to kick more violently. A hand came up and suddenly her head felt like it had exploded. When she regained consciousness, everything hurt, her thighs were slick, and they were gone.

Love is not a finite resource?

The baby awakened alone on the couch. When he didn’t see his mother, he started to cry. He was about two. Round cheeked and sad eyed. When his tears were spent, he began to crawl around. He found a bottle on the floor of the apartment and began to suck. A moment later he spit it out and began to cry again. The milk had gone sour. A cockroach crawled over his pudgy hand.

Love is not a finite resource?

The bell rang for the end of class. She was hungry but she didn’t want to go home, so she just started walking. In her mind she cataloged the feel of the pavement against her feet, the weight of her backpack, the way the light through the trees made her squint her eyes. She passed by houses. They all seemed neat, untroubled, silent. As did her own. She inhaled deeply and walked away.

Love is not a finite resource?

“There WERE a lot of gods,” she said, as she stepped out of the night,

her bloodied sword trailing after her in the dying of the light.

“For the injustices their reign has caused, I have cut them down.

And I will do the same to any who try to claim their crowns!”

Her lips were red, and she had blue-black skin. Her hair was a thunder cloud.

Her eyes were twin golden augers, as she stood to challenge the crowd.

Some who witnessed stared in disbelief. They scoffed and called her, “Liar!”

Others raged and called her “Witch!” and planned to set her afire.

But a thunderous clap ripped through the sky and then another, and another.

And the ground, it heaved beneath their feet, and they fell and clung to each other.

A great wail began within their throats. A great howling began in the wind.

A great hymn of darkness began in the skies. And they cowered to wait for their end.

The Godslayer, now forgotten amidst this earthly discontent,

lifted her sword skyward, her voice a haunting-sweet lament.

For it was no god nor deity that rent the world asunder

but the souls of those she had avenged as they stretched their arms in wonder.

For upon their death, they had been shackled, and they lay deeply entombed.

The rage of their slain innocence mooring them to their doom.

“Awaken!” she cried amidst the storm, “Awaken, for you are free!

The Gods of old have perished upon this blade in front of me!

The longest night is over, no longer court despair!

Go! Go to your loved ones. They all await you there!”

And as she spoke a door appeared, unfolding in the clearing,

much like a spinning puzzle box appearing and disappearing.

And beyond its gates a paradise for all who would embrace

that the gift of our shared differences is the gift that brings us grace.

(trigger warning: rape scene stanza six)

Love is not a finite resource?

Desperate, she quickened her steps but could barely keep ahead of Monique and the crowd of kids from her school who were closing in on her. She wasn’t going to make it home. “Why isn’t anyone helping me?” she thought frantically. “This can’t look right. I didn’t do anything!” She tried to move quicker. Someone grabbed the back of her hair.

Love is not a finite resource?

He stared into the mirror. The large scar that painted his right cheek like an exploded plum had almost faded. A tightness in his chest, so long present he barely acknowledged it anymore, loosened by a hair. His older brother had given it to him several years ago when he sprayed him in the face with a keyboard cleaner of compressed air. His hand came up to touch it.

Love is not a finite resource?

It was 2 a.m. She tried to go back to sleep but the phone kept ringing repeatedly. She had turned the ringer off, but she could still hear it in her head. Still see the red-light blinking. By the sound of her voice her daughter was high again and she wanted money. She gave up on trying to sleep. She knew what was coming next. There was a pounding on the front door and then the bell started ringing.

Love is not a finite resource?

He tried to be a good son. But he had a family now, children. He had to set boundaries. He couldn’t let the craziness in his mom’s house touch his. There would have to be some distance.

Love is not a finite resource?

She turned up the volume on her headphones. Her mom, her grandma and her auntie were arguing again. She didn’t understand what it was about, but they all got very loud and very angry. Sometimes grandma ended up crying or mom left for days. Sometimes the police came. They were right outside her door now. She turned the volume up again.

Love is not a finite resource?

She had had a lot to drink at the party and was just coming out of the bathroom when someone grabbed her and shoved her onto a bed in a dark room. She could smell the liquor on their breath even though their hand on her mouth made it hard to breathe. It also stifled her screams. They began rifling under her skirt and she started to kick more violently. A hand came up and suddenly her head felt like it had exploded. When she regained consciousness, everything hurt, her thighs were slick, and they were gone.

Love is not a finite resource?

The baby awakened alone on the couch. When he didn’t see his mother, he started to cry. He was about two. Round cheeked and sad eyed. When his crying was spent, he began to crawl around. He found a bottle on the floor and began to suck. A moment later he spit it out and began to cry again. The milk had gone sour. A cockroach crawled over his pudgy hand.

Love is not a finite resource?

The bell rang for the end of class. She was hungry but she didn’t want to go home. So, she just started walking. In her mind she cataloged the feel of the pavement against her feet, the weight of her backpack, the way the light through the trees made her squint her eyes. She stopped in front of a small house. It seemed neat, untroubled, silent. She inhaled deeply and walked away.

Love is not a finite resource?

“There WERE a lot of gods,” she said, as she stepped out of the night,

her bloodied sword trailing after her in the dying of the light.

“For the injustices their reign has caused, I have cut them down.

And I will do the same to any who try to claim their crowns!”

Her lips blazed red against her blue-black skin. Her hair was a thunder cloud.

And her eyes were twin golden augers, as she stood to challenge the crowd.

Some who witnessed stared in disbelief. They scoffed and called her, “Liar!”

Others raged and called her “Witch!” and planned to set her afire.

But then a thunderous clap ripped through the sky and then another, and another.

And the ground, it heaved beneath their feet they fell and clung to each other.

A great wail began within their throats. A great howling began in the wind.

A great hymn of darkness began in the skies. And they cowered and waited for the end.

The Godslayer, now forgotten amidst this new earthly discontent,

lifted her sword skyward, her voice a haunting-sweet lament.

For it was no god nor deity that rent the world asunder

but the souls of those she had avenged as they stretched their arms in wonder.

For they had been shackled, as they lay deeply entombed.

The rage of their slain innocence mooring them to their doom.

“Awaken!” she cried amidst the storm, “Awaken, for you are free!

The Gods of old have perished upon this blade in front of me!

The longest night is over, no longer court despair!

Go! Go to your loved ones. They all await you there!”

And as she spoke a door appeared, unfolding in the clearing,

much like a spinning puzzle box appearing and disappearing.

And beyond its gates a paradise for all who would believe

That the strength of our shared differences is the greatest gift we could receive.

In my opinion, should someone’s path to self-expression necessitate the use of swear words then so be it! Swearing is not something I commonly do in my writing, fiction or otherwise, not because of any disdain for the practice but because it is not something I use in my everyday vocabulary, nor has it been relevant to any character I have conceived of to date. I do believe, however, that as in any form of communication, in the course of putting down the bones of a thought, subject, situation it is wise to consider some variables. Is the swearing relevant to the writer and/or speaker (character or subject represented in the work), the internal and/or external context (the emotions represented or situation), and the audience (would adding swear words make communication with a specific audience more successful and/or effective). I think in any form of communication words should be considered carefully. Swear words, ideally, should not be looked upon as any lesser tool as long as their use enables us to successfully communicate.