In a horrid place, whence not but filth comes forth; where dark times and evil men steal souls, our tale begins. A child, but nine years old, knowing nothing save this wretched suffering, walks among the trees. Her feet are bare, and the golden strands of her windswept hair graze her shoulders. She pulls a tattered shawl tight around her body as she tries desperately to cover her tracks with each footstep. She remembers the faces of her sisters, whose souls had already been forfeit. Their blank stares and empty gazes haunt her dreams. Her fate has yet to be decided, but the masters had not broken her. Her soul remains intact. Its space held firm by an unwavering strength and will to endure. The horrors visited upon her had not drained her of life or spirit, she used them as fuel, igniting her courage.

   She’d fled in the night, she was fleeing still. She knew not where to go, or if safe harbor existed, she knew only she had to run. If sanctuary survived somewhere beyond, she must find it. Hope and light had forsaken her home long ago, so in the dark and against all odds she makes her way through the forest. She will journey only at night, for in the light of day the masters roam, presenting their crooked and deceitful ways like badges for all to see. In the morning her absence will be discovered, and the masters will use all at their disposal to find her. Man, woman, child, and beast will be let loose to seek her out.

   As night begins to give way, she finds in the present haven of forest, a dragon’s blood tree. Hundreds of branches stretch outwards and upwards toward the dawning sky. Reaching above, the branches intertwine but are fixed in each their own place, as if thrust into the trunk by Zeus's bolt. The tree offers protection in the form of a giant hollow. The entrance shows itself underneath a massive root, half growing out from the earth. There is room enough for a small body to huddle against the innards of the tree. It’s here she takes refuge from the coming daylight. If she remains undiscovered, she will travel again after dusk. Though the space provides her with shelter, it cannot provide rest. She knows well that which pursues her, and her distress makes for disturbed and anguished sleep. Dark dreams offer no comfort, nor visions of goodness, for she has known neither. With a palpitating heart and a quickened breath, her weary body leeches what rest it can from this uneasy state, until she is awakened fully by the sound of dogs.

To Be Continued...

The end of all we’ve ever known is near

A quiet end, when all is said and done

I watch the end approach without much fear

A rapid end without a sound to hear

The last of boredom and the end of fun

The end of all we’ve ever known is near

This is the end of all that we hold dear

An end to everything and everyone

I watch the end approach without much fear

Now at the end, my conscience will be clear

The light will end as darkness takes the sun

The end of all we’ve ever known is near

We had no clue, the end came from the rear

Now from that end there is no place to run

I watch the end approach without much fear

At least it means an end to all the tears

Time flies away, the last end has begun

The end of all we’ve ever known is near

I watch the end approach without much fear

(c) 2017 - dustygrein

** I was wondering what those last 8 minutes might be like if our sun went supernova. I'd hope I could face the end with dignity, but there really wouldn't be enough time for much else, and there could be worse things to go out with than a villanelle...

The rain this morning brought

A certain desire for the simplest of things.

A man, who will let me love him

Even through the bad times.

Simple adventures through the woods.

Nights spent by the ocean,

Wrapped around the body

Of someone who understands.

The strongest cup of black coffee

This world has to offer.

Sunday morning drives to nowhere,

with your hand in mine.

But for today, I'll settle

On the sound of the rain

And this weak coffee.

My

index

finger

pokes

the bridge

of my nose

pushing back

the glasses

that I

left

at

home

The house had a porch, and a sideways entrance

With a screen door that creaked when opened, 

Revealing a young woman with a familiar face

And blonde hair.

The truck she drove was orange with flashing lights

And she used it to kidnap each one of us, and take us here

To the old house, with a big garage that could fit her truck.

She was pretty, but with a cruel look to her

And I was so small, looking up at her, I must have been a kid, and she greeted me

With a slap across the cheek and a kick in the back so hard

That I could feel it ricochet down my spine as I lay in my bed. 

I knew I was dreaming but could not wake up,

Could not control this nightmare. During the day she kept us

In cages, with the wiring they use in chicken coops.

It was my mom who saved us all in the end;

Somehow she'd followed the bright orange truck to the house, 

And called the police, who saw me laying there, bruised and beaten

Like a bird who'd forgotten how to fly. It was her voice, too, that saved me;

Calling through dimensions, speaking through the wave of the nightmare, 

Saying it's getting late and I should get up soon, take a shower

And eat breakfast. 

Jealousy

Never the right word.

Lust,

Perhaps closer,

Still yellow to orange

Never the same

Different fruits

Sour,

Sweet,

The luxury of inner thought

The design of malcontent.

We want to be,

More than we are.

We want the lives that look so cherry

Beside our citric selves.

We want these lives that don't exist,

Because we feel the same.

They came, like all monstrous things, in the night. Tore through the valley, shredding fully grown trees into dirty brown pulp. My father woke me, his face pallid and ashen as he shoved a rifle into my hands.

"Get your sisters, I'll get your mother".

I didn't need to ask him what was wrong, for I could hear murderous wailing while those things ripped our neighbours apart. The same sounds that had plagued my dreams those many sleepless nights. I caught glimpses of shadowed masses outside as I ran past the hallway window. I burst through the bedroom door and scooped both of my sisters out of bed, their tiny bodies frozen in a paralyzing fear. I wanted to sit them down, stroke their hair and tell them everything was going to be okay, but there was no time.

No time.

My Mother and Father were waiting by the back door, and I looked at my Father's sunken face. He raised a gnarled finger to his lips, and we all understood: silence was our only chance. My Father and I quickly checked our guns while my Mother and sisters silently put their boots and jackets on. Then we heard a window smash upatairs, a demonic growling that shook the floorboards: we were out of time.

With my Father in front and me at the rear, we ran outside into the chaos. The black sky behind us was awash in an eerie orange glow, and I knew in an instant that the town was being burned down to the ground. Our people were fighting back, trying to purge the terror in a fiery blaze. If only we could warn them, tell them how futile their efforts were.

Our family managed to reach the forest high above the town, and for a moment I dared to hope. Maybe, just maybe, we had done it this time. I glanced over at my Father, our eyes meeting and a slight smirk dawning on his face. I smiled then too, for perhaps the last time in my life.

When I saw my Father reach for his gun, I knew. I knew before I heard them. I knew before I turned around and saw them. Their thirst had yet to be quenched on this night.

Then many sounds filled the air. Two gun shots, one for each of my Mother's legs. Her anguished screams. My sister's stifled cries as I covered their mouths.

"Please, please, it has to be this way" I said through my own sobbing, more to comfort myself than the two precious girls I held in my arms. We ran, through the forests and over the mountains, away from the death and on to a new life. 

To start again.

All my life I've been

Digging holes

For myself

To fall into

I've righted

So many wrongs,

And wronged

So many rights

I'm starting to look like

The pages

Of my notebooks;

Scribbled mistakes

Trying to find

The right direction to take

“When was the last time you visited Elena’s grave?” Julie asks. We’re sitting on the terrace of my small apartment in Zihuatanejo, an open bottle of wine on the table between us.

I don’t know what to say. Why does it matter when I last visited the grave? We’re all allowed to mourn in our own way. Mine was to escape—to start a new life 2,000 miles away.

“I can’t remember,” I say. “I don’t live in the same city as the grave anymore. You do realize how weird it would be for me to fly up to California just to go to the cemetery, right?”

“Don’t you think it’s important?” Julie scolds. “She was your sister, too.”

We often argue about things related to Elena. What would Elena have thought when I quit my fancy academic job to live in this small beach town in Mexico as a freelance writer? What would Elena say about Julie’s new solar panels on her house? Julie projects her own judgments onto Elena now that she’s gone, but Elena was never one to judge.

“Why did you come down here, Julie?”

“I wanted to see you, to make sure you’re happy with, I don’t know, being here. I was reading that depression might be genetic.”

After Elena’s suicide, Julie developed deep lines on her face. She is only 28, but she looks ten years older. I’m older than she is, but no one would guess that anymore.

“I’m happy,” I tell her. “Teaching left me no time to write. My whole life was in a classroom or grading papers.”

Silence. Silence means she's telling herself secrets. Good. I don't want to hear them.

“It is a beautiful town. You’re learning Spanish—that’s really cool. And the sunsets here are incredible. Elena would have loved them.”

“Why don’t you move down here too?” I ask. “You could be my neighbor.”

I know she would never move. She has her house and her job and her garden and her solar panels. She has Elena’s grave to take care of. I nod to the African violet sitting on the bookshelf.

“I keep Elena’s favorite plant by the window. It’s something. A gravestone is just a symbol. She’s not really there anymore. You know that, right?”

Julie ignores me. She checks her phone, and I stare at the wilting violets. They don’t do well in the heat—this isn’t anything like their natural climate. But they’re surviving.

Julie asks, “Why is it so easy for you?”

As she finishes the question, she’s already started sobbing. The waves are crashing loudly into the shore today. I can hear them from here on the terrace. I look out over the bay, my new home, and think, Elena would have loved this. Then I reach over to hug my sister. It’s peaceful, all of it, even her soft sobs.

“It’s not easy,” I say. “Elena is dead. That was her choice. But we are still alive. That can mean something great, if you let it.”