1999: the year my country fell. You can still find it standing, just barely, hobbling along on one leg as serpents nip at its heels. But that's the year everything changed.

Venezuela was a proud country, a rich country, even. My people had grown fat off the rich oil reserves nestled deep underground, had thrived as the epicenter of Latin American media. As with most periods of boundless prosperity, there's always something lurking in the shadows, ready to snuff out its light. There's always someone waiting in the wings for their chance to leech off the power and wealth my country once laid claim to.

No one ever really predicts that their home country will fall. Not just a simple tumble, either, but a chaotic descent into a black pit with vipers squirming around in the darkness below. My people are dying of hunger while up to their necks in the thick tar that once fed them, slowly drowning as it fills their mouths. How can a nation fall into such extreme poverty while sitting on such rich reserves of liquid gold? The answer: greed. Egomaniacs just have to come and ruin everything.

First they brought their promises: promises of growth, of wealth, that all those hungry mouths piled high in the slums of Petare would pull themselves out of poverty if they just elected one man. The populist. The common man. The thief. They donned their red shirts and tagged buildings with political slogans. They campaigned for a man who pledged to take all their worries away if we just handed him a little bit of power. Just a little, to start. That's all he needed, right?

He got his picture taken with the poor farmers in their shantytowns, shook their hands, told them to their faces that things would all be different. I guess he was right about that. Things were never the same once he entered office.

Everything comes at a price. Venezuela was sold to the highest bidder and ransacked until all that remained was hyperinflation and nationalized industries. The landscape slowly changed as the buildings came down. Companies started leaving the country, fleeing behind the first wave of migration.

1999. The year the first wave of Venezuelans first left in search of new homes. Among them, a young couple with a toddler in tow. She was too young then to understand why she had to leave the rest of her family behind, to understand why she had to go to a new school where everyone spoke a strange language she had only started to pick up from international television shows. The kids made fun of her for the rice and beans in her lunchbox. She never did like peanut butter.

As the years passed, the infrastructure back home slowly crumbled. The earth reclaimed power lines, growing thick tangles of vines around the aging equipment. Turquoise waves once lapped at clean, white-powder shores. Now waves of blackouts ran through the country several times per week, sometimes even per day.

The years brought more waves of migration out of the country. Some were more welcoming than others. Some could not possibly understand what it was like to have to start over in a strange land with a strange language, trying every day to forget that they might not ever see home again. As long as I was the "right" skin color, they could pick and choose when to conveniently forget that I was different. But god, they didn't let me forget it when it supported their narrative. Some would look at me like a specimen on a glass slide, marveling at my lack of a pesky accent.

Most of my family is scattered across the globe now. I guess I should be grateful at that fact. At least they're not stuck back home under the thumb of an oppressive regime. But I can't help but think of spending holidays at my grandpa's ranch, collecting eggs from the chicken coop in the morning and climbing up to pick avocados from the tree. We'll never be in one place again. We're doomed to live out the rest of our lives thousands of miles apart.

When things get just a smidge safer, we're able to lower our defenses and visit home once more. It's bittersweet, knowing we can never stay and knowing we'll always leave someone behind. But these times are few and far between as crime continues to take hold of my country. Narco-terrorists rule the land, kidnapping people when it conveniences them. You can't wear brand-name clothes or visible jewelry or it'll be ripped off your neck in the street. You can't pull out your phone at a traffic light, or a motorcycle will drive up and take it from your hands at gunpoint.

What hurts to see is that so many Venezuelans still walk around with their red hats adorned with eight stars of the new flag. When Chavez came in, he changed the Constitution like it was a page in his scrapbook. He added an eighth star to the flag without explanation. My family believes it was meant to represent him. A terrible stain on the nation for the end of time. He's long gone now, but his circle remains in power. The corrupt line continues to pass down governance and an ever-increasing wealth built off the broken backs of my people.

I should be thankful that my parents had the good sense to see Chavez for who—or what—he really was twenty-five years ago. And I am, up to a point. But it's clouded by my resentment for the Venezuela that could have been. The Venezuela that should be today. My country was pillaged and stripped down to its bones, leaving death and destruction in its wake.

It's easy for us now in the first world to put this worst case scenario out of our minds. We're separated by oceans and years from the worst of it. It could never happen here, right? We grow complacent. We plug our ears and cover our eyes to avoid seeing those raiding the national coffers for their own benefit. We think it's just something that happens to other people. I hope to god they're right. Because I can't do this all over again.

“Never go back to a place where you have been happy. Until you do it remains alive for you. If you go back it will be destroyed.” - Agatha Christie

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Despite the general consensus against flying, he looked forward to the “me time”; watching movies, eating, and sleeping while being attended to. Not today.

He had not eaten a single meal, and was looking forward to meeting his mates, after almost four decades. He asked for an orange juice, adjusted the headphones, and pulled the blanket up to his neck.

Spinning the clock back in his mind, he smiled. It had been a daily ritual of sorts at the local chai-wallah, the owner known simply as 'Uncle'. His mob of teenagers would leave the place either when ‘Uncle’ closed for the day, or when their banter was exhausted. Usually, it was the former.

At the time, it seemed like they would grow old together, in the same time and place. Even when their career paths diverged, they continued the soirée unabated. Jabber of playing Cricket turned to discussing the game, there being no time left to play from the pursuit of happiness, a la Economics.

Daily catch-ups turned to weeklies until the span stretched to months and geographies. Videoconferencing provided a fun alternative but the novelty wore off. Promises to sync again diluted and broke. After reviving connections on socials, he had suggested a meetup and was almost in tears when the mob agreed en masse.

After landing, and navigating the usual drills at the airport, he hailed a cab, and settled back to enjoy the nostalgia rushing past as the driver made his way to the destination, replete with honking, cursing, and breaking traffic rules. He would catch up with his buddies before heading home to see his family.

When he alighted at the rendezvous spot, he had to stretch for a bit. The ride had taken its toll on his lower back and it was something he didn't miss from the old days when a rough ride was part of everyday life.

His friends, now balding and graying, not unlike himself, were as welcoming as he could remember. They hugged him and complimented him on his physique; quite the contrast from their sagging chests and growing bellies.

“Foreign countries keep you fit, yaar. Everyone is into exercise and fitness!” One of his mates teased him.

“Arrey, I ask you what is the need to struggle with exercise at this age? Who's going to a Mr. India contest, huh? Enjoy life!” Another shared his philosophy.

He just laughed along because he was happy to be back in their company, and at Uncle's.

“Hey buggers,” he finally asked, “Where's the chai?”

“You still remember, no? Bugger’s not changed a bit that way!”

“Of course I remember.” He laughed. “Now, let's order a round or five.”

“No more Uncle's chai, man. He was bought over by that big American cafe chain!”

“What? No.”

“Ya! Hey, but they make a good latte, okay?”

We will make wanting strong wine and strange music,

spurn order and all its trappings.

Did any of that shit ever make you happy—

those walls you bought, your passing little pleasures?

Come, raid these wild lands.

Balk at no offense; bite neck and press

broken bones through dirt.

Never again apologize for the strength of your arm.

I would never pull my punches—

not with you, my sibling.

Death is close here. As it should be.

We will walk with the water as far as it goes.

Wind-loving folk as once we were.

We will bring far horizons to heel on nought

but will and want.

With mountains for fire, we will crisp the hides of sacred game—

lashings of red meat seared with iron.

We will fell the grand stags of the sun;

great tombs mark passing fierce beauty.

I can't piss on my own land for fear

of my responsibility to the eyes of others.

If that's the bar that's been set,

I pronounce myself a man of frail loyalty.

I want to burn through these green lush lands

like a shooting star,

crashing beyond some far-flung hill,

to be discovered in wonder by some bookish little fellow

far from now.

Give fully in;

let mad truth bloom in brilliant hues of heresy,

a beacon roared with profane vigor.

Eat what claw and fang will find.

Awash in clean night air,

eyes shining beneath the thrush.

Come live with me in the trees.

Exiting the pale grey coffin mouth

Heavy in October’s quiet morning moan

Sing deluged seawater epics

Over leafy burning phantoms

Yellowing pilgrim rage

Her sun slivered eyelashes

Bat blood blistered castaways

Burning rose tipped alms

Demure flame

Atop mascara mountains

Her thundersquall boots

Chained to heated gravity

Disturbed ballet

Leaping volumes

Out the black frosted heel

Keeping sacred sleep

Where untamed silhouettes

Spear naked openings

Sashaying swords to ghost husk trees

Choral flower battles

Reedy hymnal dreams

And sound is mute chambered gold

By her spirited marble steps

That kiss moorland halo

To such a sun swaddled beautiful death

Wrapped diamond cold

But pressed fathoms deep

Under cathedral skies

Crushed velvet twinkles

Her wild dance

Eternal snow

Bittersweet lodgings

Ashes and afterglow.

The Weight of Stones

Marcus stared at the crumpled newspaper clipping in his trembling hand. Even after five years, the words still burned:

"Local Teen Killed in Hit-and-Run"

He swallowed hard, his throat constricting around the lump of guilt that never seemed to go away. The faces of Sarah Thompson's parents flashed in his mind - their anguished cries at the funeral, their pleas on the local news for the driver to come forward.

But he never did.

Instead, he ran. He abandoned his scholarship to State, his dreams of becoming an engineer. He cut ties with everyone he knew and vanished into the anonymity of the big city. For five years he'd drifted from one menial job to the next, trying to outrun his conscience.

But the weight of what he'd done crushed him more with each passing day. He couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. The guilt was a cancer eating him from the inside out.

He knew what he had to do. What he should have done years ago.

With shaking hands, he dialed the number.

"Millbrook Police Department, how may I direct your call?"

Marcus took a deep breath. "I...I need to confess to a crime."

Detective Alan Reeves drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, stealing sidelong glances at the young man in his passenger seat. In his twenty years on the force, he'd seen plenty of perps brought to justice. But he'd never had one turn themselves in out of the blue for a years-old cold case.

The kid - Marcus Ellis - had shown up at the station that morning, haggard and hollow-eyed. He'd confessed to the hit-and-run that killed Sarah Thompson five years ago. Alan remembered that case. He'd been the lead detective, had promised the grieving parents he'd find who was responsible.

But the trail went cold. No witnesses. No physical evidence. The case haunted Alan for years.

And now here was the perpetrator, delivering himself to face justice.

"You know you're facing some serious charges," Alan said, breaking the tense silence. "Vehicular manslaughter. Leaving the scene of an accident. Why come forward now after all this time?"

Marcus stared out the window, his voice barely above a whisper. "I couldn't live with it anymore. The guilt...it was killing me. Sarah deserves justice. Her family deserves closure."

Alan's jaw tightened. Part of him wanted to rail at this kid, to make him feel the full weight of the pain he'd caused. But there was something in Marcus's demeanor - a bone-deep weariness, a palpable self-loathing - that gave Alan pause.

This wasn't a hardened criminal. This was a broken man crushed by the burden of his choices.

"Well," Alan said gruffly, "I can't say I agree with running. But turning yourself in, owning up to what you did - that takes guts."

Marcus turned to him, eyes glistening. "Do you...do you think her family will ever be able to forgive me?"

Alan sighed heavily. "I don't know, son. That's not for me to say. But facing them, facing what you've done - it's the right thing to do. It's the only way to start making amends."

They lapsed back into silence as they neared their destination. Alan found himself hoping, against all his cynical instincts as a cop, that some measure of healing might come from this for all involved.

Elizabeth Thompson's hands shook as she set down her teacup. She stared at her husband Robert across the kitchen table, trying to process what he'd just told her.

"They caught him?" she whispered. "After all this time?"

Robert nodded, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "Detective Reeves called. Said the guy turned himself in this morning. Confessed to everything."

A maelstrom of emotions churned inside Elizabeth - shock, anger, grief. For five years they'd wondered who had stolen their precious daughter's life, had prayed for answers. Now those prayers were answered in the most unexpected way.

"What...what happens now?" she asked.

"There'll be a trial," Robert said. "Detective Reeves said the DA is pushing for the maximum sentence."

Elizabeth's hands clenched into fists. Part of her cried out for vengeance, wanted this man to suffer as they had suffered. But another part of her, the part that still clung to her faith despite everything, whispered of forgiveness.

Sarah had been their miracle child. After years of failed fertility treatments, they'd given up hope of ever having a baby. Then Elizabeth got pregnant against all odds.

Sarah had been the light of their lives for 17 years. She'd inherited Elizabeth's artistic talent and Robert's quick wit. Her future had been so bright.

And then she was gone. Struck down by a careless driver who fled the scene, leaving her broken body in the street.

The loss nearly destroyed them. Robert threw himself into his work, staying late at the office to avoid coming home to an empty house. Elizabeth quit her job, unable to face teaching art classes without her daughter's sunny presence.

Their marriage teetered on the brink of collapse. Only their shared grief kept them together, two drowning people clinging to each other in a stormy sea.

Slowly, painfully, they'd begun to heal. Elizabeth started volunteering at the community center, teaching art to underprivileged kids. Robert joined a support group for grieving parents. They'd even talked about possibly trying to have another child.

And now this. The wound ripped open anew.

"I want to see him," Elizabeth said suddenly.

Robert blinked in surprise. "What?"

"The man who killed our daughter. I want to look him in the eye. I need to understand why he did it. Why he ran."

Robert reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "Are you sure? It might be too painful."

Elizabeth met his gaze, steel in her eyes. "I'm sure. I need this. For closure. For Sarah."

Robert nodded slowly. "Okay. I'll call Detective Reeves and set it up."

As Robert went to make the call, Elizabeth closed her eyes and said a silent prayer. For strength. For guidance.

And, to her surprise, for the man who had taken her daughter's life.

Marcus sat rigid in the hard plastic chair, his heart hammering against his ribs. The small room in the county jail felt suffocating. Or maybe that was just the weight of his guilt.

The door opened. Marcus's breath caught in his throat as Sarah's parents walked in.

He'd seen their faces countless times in newspaper articles and TV interviews over the years. But nothing prepared him for the reality of their presence. The lines of grief etched into their faces. The pain in their eyes that mirrored his own.

"Mr. and Mrs. Thompson," he croaked, "I...I'm so sorry."

Robert Thompson's face hardened. He opened his mouth, but his wife laid a gentle hand on his arm.

"Why?" Elizabeth asked softly. "Why did you leave her there?"

Marcus's eyes burned with unshed tears. "I was scared. I'd been drinking at a party. I knew I shouldn't drive, but I thought I was okay. When I hit Sarah, I...I panicked. I just wanted it not to be real."

He looked down at his shaking hands. "I've relived that moment every day for five years. I know nothing I say can bring Sarah back or ease your pain. But I want you to know how deeply sorry I am. I'd give anything to trade places with her."

Silence fell over the room. Marcus braced himself for their anger, their condemnation. He deserved nothing less.

To his shock, he felt a warm hand cover his own. He looked up to see Elizabeth, tears streaming down her face.

"I forgive you," she whispered.

Marcus gaped at her in disbelief. Robert looked equally stunned.

"Elizabeth," he started to protest.

She silenced him with a look. "I forgive you," she repeated to Marcus. "Not because you deserve it. But because I need to. For my own peace. For Sarah."

She squeezed his hand. "Sarah believed there was good in everyone. She'd want me to forgive you."

Marcus broke down then, great heaving sobs wracking his body. Five years of pent-up guilt and self-loathing poured out of him.

"I'm sorry," he choked out between sobs. "I'm so, so sorry."

To his amazement, he felt arms encircle him. Elizabeth held him as he wept, her own tears falling into his hair.

Robert watched the scene unfold, a war of emotions raging inside him. Part of him wanted to lash out, to make this man feel every ounce of pain they'd endured. But seeing his wife's compassion softened something in him.

He thought of Sarah - her infectious laugh, her boundless empathy. What would she want?

Slowly, hesitantly, he stepped forward and laid a hand on Marcus's shoulder.

"I'm not there yet," he said gruffly. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to fully forgive you. But I'm willing to try."

Marcus raised his tear-stained face, overwhelmed by their grace. "Thank you," he whispered. "I don't deserve your forgiveness. But I promise you, I'll spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of it."

As the three of them embraced, Marcus felt something he hadn't experienced in five long years.

Hope.

The next few months passed in a blur of legal proceedings. Marcus pled guilty to all charges, refusing any plea deals. He was sentenced to seven years in prison.

As the bailiff led him away after sentencing, he locked eyes with the Thompsons in the gallery. They gave him small nods of acknowledgement. It wasn't absolution, but it was a start.

Marcus threw himself into every rehabilitation and education program the prison offered. He earned his GED, then started taking college courses. He volunteered for work duty, determined to make something positive of his time behind bars.

The Thompsons kept in touch through letters and occasional visits. Their relationship was complicated, fraught with painful history. But slowly, tentatively, healing began to take root.

Elizabeth told Marcus about the Sarah Thompson Memorial Scholarship they'd established. Each year, it sent a promising young artist to college. Marcus vowed that once he was released, he'd find a way to contribute to the scholarship fund.

Robert shared that he'd started speaking to high school students about the dangers of drunk driving. Marcus offered to tell his story as part of Robert's presentations once he was out. Robert said he'd consider it.

Three years into his sentence, Marcus got life-changing news. Thanks to his exemplary behavior and the support of the Thompsons, he was granted early release.

As he stepped out of the prison gates, blinking in the bright sunlight of freedom, he found the Thompsons waiting for him.

"We thought you might need a ride," Elizabeth said with a small smile.

Marcus's eyes welled with tears of gratitude. "Thank you. For everything."

Robert clapped him on the shoulder. "You've got a second chance, son. Don't waste it."

"I won't," Marcus vowed. "I promise."

As they drove away from the prison, Marcus felt the burden he'd carried for so long begin to lighten. He knew he'd never fully shed the weight of what he'd done. But for the first time in eight years, he dared to hope for a future.

A future where he could honor Sarah's memory by living the best life possible. A future where healing and redemption were possible, even in the face of unthinkable tragedy.

It wouldn't be easy. The road ahead was long and fraught with challenges. But as Marcus looked at the Thompsons - these two incredible people who had found the strength to forgive the unforgivable - he knew he wasn't walking that road alone.

Ten Years Later

Marcus stood at the podium, gazing out at the sea of young faces before him. He took a deep breath, drawing strength from the supportive presence of Robert and Elizabeth Thompson seated in the front row.

"My name is Marcus Ellis," he began, "and ten years ago, I killed someone."

A hush fell over the auditorium. Marcus saw shock and curiosity flicker across the students' faces. Good. He had their attention.

"I was a lot like many of you," he continued. "Senior in high school. Star athlete. Bright future ahead of me. I thought I was invincible."

His voice caught. Even after all these years, this part was never easy.

"I was wrong. One night of stupid choices destroyed everything. I got behind the wheel after drinking at a party. I struck and killed a beautiful young woman named Sarah Thompson. And then I fled the scene like a coward."

Marcus paused, letting his words sink in. In the front row, Elizabeth dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. Robert squeezed her hand.

"I'm here to tell you that your choices have consequences," Marcus went on. "Sometimes those consequences are irreversible. I robbed Sarah of her life. I caused unimaginable pain to her family and friends. And I threw away my own future."

He gestured to the Thompsons. "But I'm also here to tell you about the power of forgiveness. These two incredible people found it in their hearts to forgive me for the unforgivable. Their compassion gave me a second chance at life."

Marcus smiled softly. "I can never undo what I did. But I've dedicated my life to honoring Sarah's memory and trying to prevent others from making the same mistakes I did."

He told them about the outreach program he'd started, speaking at schools and youth groups about the dangers of drunk driving. He shared how he'd finally earned his engineering degree and now donated a portion of his salary to the Sarah Thompson Memorial Scholarship.

"Your choices matter," he concluded. "Choose wisely. And if you mess up, own it. Take responsibility. It's never too late to try to make things right."

As applause filled the auditorium, Marcus stepped down from the podium. Elizabeth enfolded him in a warm hug.

"Sarah would be proud," she whispered.

Robert shook his hand firmly. "You're doing good work, Marcus. Keep it up."

Marcus nodded, his throat tight with emotion. "Thank you both. For everything."

As they left the auditorium together, Marcus marveled at the journey that had brought them here. From tragedy to forgiveness to purpose.

The weight of what he'd done would always be with him. But it no longer threatened to crush him. Instead, it drove him forward, pushing him to make a positive difference in the world.

He couldn't change the past. But every day, he strove to be worthy of the second chance he'd been given. To live a life that would have made Sarah proud.

It wasn't happily ever after. The pain and loss would always linger. But it was something perhaps more valuable - hard-won peace and the promise of a better tomorrow.

As they stepped out into the sunshine, Marcus sent up a silent prayer of gratitude. For forgiveness. For redemption. For the chance to transform an unforgivable sin into a force for good in the world.

One day at a time, one life at a time, he would keep moving forward. It was the very least he could do.

I am terrified to be vulnerable again,

Protests my soul’s

Battered child;

Can love erase the devil’s palm prints

Stitched around this limping heart?

I’ve tombed myself

In a sun jailed room,

Keyless cathedral

Where recycled trauma bonded visions

Flash digital scars,

Screening sympathy buried scenes

From my faded analogue life.

But I can’t deny

This charmed lapdog dance

Towards your dawning smile,

Obliterating parameters

Made of make believe ghosts,

Arm’s length darkness

And claustrophobic pinch

Entertained for far too long.

So paint lipstick love

Over stained glass sorrow

And let crowing demons

Be downed

And turned inside out,

Cutlass split bones

Now only bird picked memories.

To hell with fear’s straggling horrors.

Hold me.

Smarmy Smorzando was a woman to be reckoned with. Her hair was dutifully coiffed daily just so recherché. Her clothes--always--were impeccably, fashionably, admirably haute. She was a bon vivant, vivisecting a ne'er-do-well of derring-do.

She lived an amazing life in ordinary times; an amazing person among the hoi polloi. She was a patrician who pronged, unobstructed and effusively, through the throngs of plebeians. She was condescending with adorers, down-upending with peers, effervescent among the stagnant, evanescent among paparazzi, and viridescent to those she envied.

Smarmy Smorzando was relevant beyond her allotted 15 minutes, influential among influences and discouragers alike, and important among the self-appointed self-important.

She was a perfectionist who refined perfection; an insurrectionist who impressed the impressionistic; a euphamist among the eumorists; an auscultating percussionist striking a beat to a different drum that drummed the heartbeat of an indifference from...

Indifference from the poor, the hungry, the downtrodden, the miserable and suffering, the sick, and the otherwise other-worldly deserving from the underserving.

Smarmy Smorzando had coiff and haute, bling and swag, poise and grace, snide and snark, all wax and no wan, misgivings over giving, and damnation if she did and damnation if she didn't.

She was tall and thin but extended far and wide. She opined widely with her mouth opened widely. Her audience was Gaussian, and she buoyed the center curve highly above the heads of those below it. She got over everyone but could always stoop lower.

Smarmy Smorzando left then laughing when she went but bleeding when she came. The little people so far below her needed her like they needed, so far, a hole in the head, so graciously rendered by her stiletto shoes stepping on their heads to reach her status.

She called her own name as others called her names. She took names as those names took her seriously. But, true to her own name, Smarmy Smorzando followed Gaussian when the time came and merely faded away.

Tomorrow she will be is as famous as Tildon Tessier was yesterday. Remember him? Windows open for raiders and pirates and burglars to steal, but before they get away--and no one in this life ever does--that window closes cruelly and righteously.

How, when Gods are so scarce, is there an Angel in every whorehouse?

It was not in her head. She was different than the other girls, and those differences kept her feeling like an outsider. Angel was always surprised and a tad apprehensive when chosen, which was a major difference in itself, as the others vied to be chosen, making themselves comparably “bigger” everywhere that bigness mattered in mad attempts at being picked; bigger boobs, bigger hair, bigger lips, bigger personalities, while Angel remained small, girlishly-figured (flat as a board, a carpenter would call it), and meek from the facts of it. Yet she was chosen, and frequently. In fact, the other girls would not have believed it to learn that Angel was the fourth highest earner of the sixteen of them. Yet it shouldn’t have surprised them. They, better than anyone else, understood the sheer number of pervs out there, and how many of those pervs desired youthfulness in a lover. With most of Angel’s customers it was the more youthful the better. Child-like was even preferable, which was poor Angel’s lot, her appearance being small, round-eyed, and submissive. And none of the girls would have guessed it, not even Angel herself, but Angel’s lack of desire to be chosen was actually an added temptation for the sordid sort she attracted.

Like the other cathouse professionals Angel had learned to discern those customers who were likely to choose her within minutes of them walking into the brothel’s front room, where the scantily clad girls awaited to serve them drinks, and to seduce them (and their billfolds) for the night. It wasn’t so much the pervs’ looks that gave them away to her, it was more how they acted. Some customers walked in like they owned the place, appearing immediately at ease. They were the regulars; the senior fraternity brothers from the downtown university, the half-sober vocational workers who didn’t want to go home to their nagging, never in-the-mood wives, and finally the hurried, desperate to be discreet professional-types… but none of those “normal” kinds, ever seemed to be looking for Angel.

Of all the names to choose from, for a job like hers.

No, the ones who picked Angel were the neurotic, weaselly ones, their eyes darting this way and that. That was how she could tell them, by their eyes. Her customers always seemed unsettled, and not with the nervous kind of jitters that a brothel can give someone who seldom frequents one, either. Theirs was not just a nervousness gained through lack of situational confidence. No, it was way worse than that. It was a nervous born from ineptitude maybe… or worse, from some prevailing odium which followed them around like that cartoon character with the dark cloud always above him. Nevertheless, these were not cartoon characters. Far from it. Her customers did not come to the brothel looking for a good time. These people, men and women, came with a different purpose; for the chance to be alone (if only for a short while) with someone whom they could control, someone they could dominate, someone they could show the very opposite of a good time. And Angel had the look they sought; that callow, guileless look these insecure types craved. Poor little Angel’s diminutiveness made her ripe for domination.

And it was not just men. Angel attracted women too; couples, lesbians, or sometimes even lesbian couples. Always the hard core lesbians. The “butch” ones. The cropped haired, masculine ones, and the ones who had begun “the change”. The scarred and breast-less ones who sought out a paid professional, as professionals lacked the option to back out after being introduced to said lesbian’s clinically contrived attempts at manliness.

Poor little Angel humored them all, best she could. After all, she was one of them; those diffident, nervous types. She understood them. There was empathy for them inside her, even as they hurt her. It was somehow in her heart to help them. Wasn’t she as meek and misunderstood as they were? Wasn’t she also bullied and looked down upon? Wasn’t she the eternal subject of humiliation, degradation, and lewdness? By God, didn’t she allow the most disdainful of them to have their ways with her, so long as it did not become too violent? Angel was so used to being pounded on from behind for long stretches by strangers with no interest in ejaculation that she had grown to expect it, and of having her tiny bottom slapped pink by a calloused, masculine hand as she was pounded, or worse, being sprayed in a golden shower afterward. But, “it was ok,” Angel always reminded herself while catching her breath, and while cleaning herself up, and while counting her money at the end of the night. It did not hurt that bad, nor for that long, and it was a kind of therapy she was supplying to them, the saddest and most destitute of people, was it not? It made Angel feel better when she applied a virtuous spin to it all. “It is not only profitable work,“ is what she often told herself after a bad night, “it is good work.”

Now then, with this dismal setting properly set our story may begin. Having read to this point you will not fail to understand Angel’s happy surprise at the prospective client who walked in early in the evening on this particular night and bee-lined straight for her. The woman was not at all Angel’s “type”. She was neither shifty, nor weaselly. Rather, this woman approached Angel’s corner table with a warm, friendly smile. She was singularly attractive, not young, but not old either. The woman’s make-up was as light as her perfume was. Her hair was pulled back and uncolored. Her clothing was of good quality, and was conservative in style. She had the refined look of a professional type, of a doctor maybe, and would have looked comfortable in a lab coat. And the woman’s demeanor was spot-on for her appearance with her naturally inquisitive eyes, and her shoulders confidently set, so much so that Angel’s hopes for the night actually rose. Surely such a woman as this had not come to her with degradative aims?

Angel’s instincts were only partially wrong.

”Hello! Angel, isn’t it?”

”Yes. Have we met?” Having chosen it herself, and having been decently raised, the name still left her a little uncomfortable to use. “Of course, Angel isn’t my ‘real’ name.”

The woman did not mean to cut, but her words were sharp, nevertheless. “I should think not.” The glimmer in the woman’s eyes vanished for just a tick, then was back, although stiffer. “No, we have not met. I am Beverly Vypont. I have a proposition for you. Do you mind if I sit?”

Curious, but also stung, Angel remained negligent with her invitation, exhaling a pointed and impolite stream of smoke in the woman’s direction while gesturing towards the seat opposite her own.

Beverly Vypont waited patiently for the smoke to clear before slipping properly into the offered chair. “I came by this afternoon and spoke with Carmen, your manager. She described you to me, suggested that I look for you.”

”Oh, how nice of her.” There was no emotion in Angel’s voice. Carmen had “recommended” her to this woman? So… this would likely be bad after all.

”May I explain my situation?”

”Sure. Why not?” Angel snuffed out her cigarette, the better to listen.

The woman paused, scanning the table as if for a drink. Catching the clue, Angel rose. She was, after all, a servant, if a barely dressed one. “What can I get you?”

”Whiskey. Neat. Thank you.” Beverly Vypont watched Angel circle the bar, liking what she saw. This girl Angel was just as Carmen had described her, youthful and pretty if a bit sharp featured. The girl wore nothing but a very short, scarlet negligee. The legs sticking out from below it were thin, pale, and a bit knock-kneed, but that was alright. It would not matter. Willingness was the key, and Carmen had hinted that this girl would brave just about anything. The whiskey Angel brought back was cheap, biting harshly at Beverly’s tongue, much as this mission did, but that did not matter, either.

”Now then. What is it you want from me?” Angel’s half-smile did not reach her eyes.

Right to the point, Beverly thought. Fair enough. “I need a woman for my son.”

Angel laughed dismissively. Usually it was the father with such a proposition, not the mother. “Why not just bring him in then, Lady. We’ve all done that trick here.”

Beverly Vypont was not laughing. “It is not that simple.”

Of course not. Angel cursed her bad luck. It was never that simple, not for her. “All right then, spit it out already. Why isn’t it that simple?”

Beverly Vypont’s eyes leveled on Angel’s own, looking through them into her very soul, striking Anne’s callous indignity a shameful hammer blow when she said it. “My son is dying.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Anne would have dropped her head into her hands were this Vypont woman not holding her hypnotized with her eyes. Could she never just get a “normal” guy?

“Dying can mean a lot things? What do you mean when you say it?”

”He is bedridden now, under hospice care. He has weeks, at most.”

”Well, how do you intend to get him here then?”

”I’m not. You will have to come with me. Carmen said it would be ok.”

Angel somewhat controlled her belligerence. “Carmen said? Screw Carmen, I’m not leaving here and going God knows where with some deranged woman who wants me to fuck her dying son!”

”I’ll pay you $100,000.”

Angel had been leaning forward over the table, the better to hear the woman’s whispered tones, but she sagged back now, her determination to say “no” whooshing out of her like air from a poorly patched tire. “$100,000? Jesus! Lady, are you batshit crazy? What do you expect me to do with him for that kind of money?” Her nosed curled with displeasure at the very thought of it.

Beverly Vypont refused to let this whore’s vile words rile her. ”I don’t know, honestly. I know he can get an erection, but I don’t know if he can feel anything… you know… down there. But he asked me for this, for a woman, and at this point I will give him whatever I can.”

Angel reached again for her cigarette pack. “What is wrong with him?”

”ALS. Lou Gehrig’s Disease. It’s a…”

”I know what ALS is. I’m not stupid.”

”Of course not. I did not mean to imply…”

”Whatever. Forget it. Fucking Carmen…. why me?” That last part was not intended to be spoken out loud, though it was.

”You don’t have to, you know? I can ask someone else.”

”For 100 grand? Not on your life! I’d blow a grizzly bear for 100 grand! I’ll do it, but sheeesh… it’s messed up, Lady.”

Beverly Vypont missed the attempted humor. Her reply was tight-lipped, and was spoken with a raised eyebrow. “You are talking about my child, ‘Lady’. And believe me, his life is much more messed-up than yours.”

”Oh! Yea. Sorry... though I kind of doubt that last bit is true.”

Having witnessed the worsts of God and man an Angel treads fearlessly forth, for in the darkest of pits goodness doth dwell, waiting to be awakened.

Beverly Vypont opened the door and waited, making way for a hesitant Angel to enter first. It was too large a room for a bedroom, though there was a bed in its center; the hospital type of bed with a button to raise its patient to a sitting position, and then to lower them again for sleeping. The bed was currently partially raised. The room was dark but for the soft, bluish glow of an electronic halo which encircled the headboard while somehow reaching without diminishment into the furthest corners of the room through air already weighted with the sickly odors of antiseptics, the odors and lights tangling together with the sounds of sucking oxygen and the consistently quiet beep of a heartbeat monitor. These were, Angel instinctively knew, the sights, smells, and sounds of an approaching death so close by as to leave her reverently docile.

”Christian? This is Angel.” There was obvious emotion in Beverly Vypont’s voice, enough to pull at Angel’s own heartstrings, dragging her into a fervent state as well. “She’s come for you.” The woman’s voice literally broke with that said. She backed quickly out of the doorway then, pulling it to behind her, leaving Angel practically alone in a room filled with fears.

Despite them, and with only the briefest hesitation, Angel tip-toed ever so slowly to the bed’s side. She had to see, didn’t she? What it was she was in for? He was truly little more than a boy. His head did not turn toward her as Angel came into his vision, though his eyes looked side-wise at her with something akin to terror in them. Angel understood that. She was afraid too. How to begin? What to do? How to do it? What if she hurt him, or unplugged something important? Hell, he might not even want her.

Angel started with the obvious. “Hi?”

He held a blow tube between his clenched lips. Her eyes followed its meandering tube down to a box that was connected by wire to another box which was in turn connected to an IV bag whose tube ran back down and into his arm. Rather than trying to reply around the blow tube the boy closed his eyes for a long second before reopening them, making Angel immediately aware that this was how he communicated, with his eyes. “Would you like to be friends, Christian?”

Angel was not sure how to feel when the eyes slowly closed and reopened. Part of her was repulsed, but a larger part was already reaching for the soul inside the boy’s emaciated shell. She could see it in there, hiding behind his silence, a young man as desperate to love as she was to be loved. “Good” she said. And she meant it. “I would like that, too.” Her smile wasn’t forced anymore. There was a chair beside the bed, so Angel removed her overcoat and draped it over the chair’s back, leaving herself in the same skimpy, silky red negligee she’d been wearing before, when Beverly Vypont had first approached her in the brothel. While beside the chair she sat down and removed the ridiculously tall shoes she’d put on for the ride over... anything to appear taller. Returning to the bedside she decided to make things easy. With either hand she pushed at the strings holding the “nightie” to her shoulders, letting it slide off and around her ankles so that she stood naked before him. She was pleased to see that Christian’s eyes widened again, but not with fear this time. They fell to her breasts, which was the only part of her he could actually see for the bed’s height. She giggled as his face actually blushed when he looked back up at her, his shame obvious in them.

”It’s ok to look,” she assured him.

And to show it was ok, she looked down too. It was her turn to be embarrassed. They were so small. Why in God’s name had the mother chosen her for this? Any of the other girls would have been better for this boy, though even as he looked there was a rustle of movement from under the bedsheets. They were apparently big enough. “Are they all right? They aren’t very big.”

The boys’ eyes closed and then re-opened, remaining on her body. She reached for his hand, finding it twisted, its fingers curled up tight as a rubber band, the arm it extended from pale, emaciated and weak. It was nothing for her to pick the hand up, as there was literally no opposing force, neither muscular nor gravitational. The hand was cold, so she gathered it up in both of her own, warming it, massaging it futilely in an attempt to relax what could not be relaxed. “You are so cold. Would you mind if I warmed you?”

The eyes closed and opened once more.

Letting go of the hand, she reached for his blankets, pulling slowly at them, respecting his shame and distrust. His body was wasted away, his ribs pushing birdlike against pale skin, their cage protruding overtop a starved abdomen, but there was nothing shrunken about one part of him. In fact, that part, being non-muscular, stood tall, swollen and purple with life. Ignoring it, Angel climbed in beside him, pulling the covers back over them both. “Is this ok?”

The boy’s muscles might be atrophied and weak, but there was nothing wrong with his skin, which thrilled at her warmth, and at the softness of her skin against his own. His eyes closed for a longer moment this time, and then reluctantly re-opened in acknowledgement. Angel rolled onto her side, so that she could see him better, and he her. She slid one knee forward until it rested gently atop his thigh. She had been with many people, and she was finding this one not so different after all. She could please him. It would be good work to please him. Who had she ever pleased who needed it more than this boy? She placed her hand on his chest, and was gratified to see his eyes close as her hand began to rub, massaging its warmth into him.

”You like that, don’t you?” There was no response from him, but she was not fooled. She correctly suspected that he had never been touched in this way. After a moment she allowed her hand to slide down to his stomach, and her thigh to slide up his until it touched his nether region, pulling an audible moan from the poor boy, followed by a puff into the tube in his mouth, which brought a beep from the box attached to the IV stand. This was going much easier than she could have expected. She blew lightly into his ear then, causing another moan, and another puff, and another beep. She whispered into his ear then, that thing every man wants to hear from a woman, “You are very big down there.” She wondered what it must feel like to hear that, and to be unable to respond? To be unable to reach for the woman who said it, unable to climb atop her at her invitation, unable to take her in any way that a man might take a woman.

In that moment Angel understood the mother, why she would go so far to give her son this, this… most beautiful of things… for this was, in it’s very essence, love... the joining of two into one. And in this moment Angel found herself loving the boy, her heart swelling for him and his condition, her throat choking for him, and her tears welling for him, almost as though he were her own. And in this moment, alone together in this room of death, and in this bed of love, wasn’t he was hers and no one else’s? And wasn’t she his, and wouldn’t she forever be his? Unabashedly then she went for it, going down and taking him into her mouth. If she would be the only lover the boy ever knew, then she would be a proper one! Through her tongue, and through her lips she felt the pulse of life in him, and she smelled the familiar smells of man and woman, and she heard both his puffing and the beeping of the infernal box through her own blood-stoppered ears, and as she felt his weakened body stiffen to climax she pulled away and climbed atop him, sliding herself onto him with her own audible moan. He felt good inside her, normal. Emaciated he might be, but he was a man, she was a woman, and they were meant to be this way together... only it was at that very moment that realization struck her.

Opening her eyes, she watched with an increasing curiosity as he puffed into the tube, inhaling through distended nostrils, exhaling through tightened lips. Like before, her eyes followed the tube down and around to the little white box which emanated its annoying beep with each of his breaths. Continuing on, she saw where the IV entered the box, and where it exited on the bottom side. And closer to his arm, with each puff of his mouth, and each beep of the box, she watched as liquid was pushed through the needle in his arm, into his veins, into his blood. His eyes were closed now, his body relaxed, the heart monitor sluggish for a moment before suddenly turning frantic. Oh, shit!

“Christian?”

Nothing. No movement. No tenseness, and only a limpness inside her. “Christian? Are you there? Open your eyes if you can hear me, Christian?” Despairingly she leapt, more than climbed, from the bed. What had she done? What had they made her do? What had they done to her? To him? On trembling legs she begged, “Christian? Please Christian, answer me?” And then more urgently, “I need you to answer me, Christian!”

Nothing. She screamed then, Angel did. She screamed, and she cried, standing naked and alone beside him, but the boy never woke, and the mother never heeded her calls, and God, as ever, ignored her, He having new and more important matters to address, and new souls to welcome…

She had chosen poorly, Angel had, both in name and profession. This loving humans is no easy task.

I want to write music like a true poet. Not just words, drifting black and white across a blank canvas, never to see colour or cadence without a musical mind to untangle it. I want to paint obsessively. Not just kiddish attempts at watercolor and sketches I give up on halfway through, the image lost with my thoughts flying far too fast for my hand to keep up. But I can't keep up with you, true artists in this vibrant world. I can't bring life to my words like you inspire your brush, your strings, your whittling knife, or your voice. I create vessels for abstract ghosts, patterns of coded sounds in further coded shapes that only work to move information from here to there if the reader knows intimately the same magick signs. It's a gated art form, this inkcraft, and though beautiful in its way---filled with the fragrance of aging leaves, saturating in the context of its library or bookstore, musical when recited by those with greater skill, recreated by each amateur, ever evolving in every iteration---it will never quite match the passion of the colored and shadowed oils on the canvas drying on Rabbit's wall, never dance through the air to the keen vibrations of Grandfather's strings. There's too much mystery here, too much concealed, and what a name means to you is different from what it means to me.

I want to dance my stories into life---no fear here, no fear here---like a restless graveyard filled with morbid boredom, inspirit old bones with movement they've long forgotten, passing strength from my growing muscles to their atrophied and consumed limbs. No more envying the dead! I want to tell stories like an old man with a captive audience, not caring that my voice is shaky and so are my hands, or that I have to breathe twice as long as my younger counterparts, intent instead on illustrating in the softly drifting air before me invisible patterns of smoke for my listeners to inhale, seeing visions of bygone days and uphill-both-ways roads and loves so sharp and beautiful and gone, gone away, gone far away, that they begin to travel through time like I do, forgetting their wyes and woes, no choices to make, no terror in the results, standing like tall trees through contradicting air currents. I want to love like a child, playful and free, to say 'hello' and 'do you want to be my friend?' and 'goodbye' when it's time for lunch, to let it all in and let it all go and let it all be and not once think of my self as something needing or lacking or twisting up at every change in the cast of beautiful faces around me.

And though my words contain worlds that I cannot share any other way---why am I wearing clothes?---they spin so far out from the Sun that I fear they grow cold, lose their atmosphere, forget their water and their heat, and life abandons them---or they abandon life---as soon as they are set into motion, whiling away their unending shorter-than-earth days like so many dead things floating in a mountain lake, brilliant in a confused and fearful way, waiting to be eaten up by fish that will never swim there, content instead to be bounced around by spiraling children passing from life to death to life again in a game of who can swim the fastest?

I don't think I'm finished though---oh, how simple!---I don't think the lack of senses means a lack of colour or sound or feel or smell or taste; even the blueberries burst all the more sweet at night, and the stars shine more boldly in their gentle way, fall through a too-broad-for-the-eyes canvas with more invisible colour than any painting can contain without turning to mud, captured only in our silly little magick-eye contraptions we call cameras. We walk through worlds each day that cannot be traveled to again only through snapshots; we need many and never enough.

I'm creating now alongside Rabbit and Grandfather---the wind is my friend---the one painting and writing and laughing, the other touching keys and strings and singing out, and I draw faces in leaves and flowers blooming behind closed eyes and write, a volunteer insomniac in the minutes between the hours, sketching out in digital glyphs impossible geometries that fill the sky and pattern onto our ceilings, collage the musings of other souls into a little container, which opens onto a little world being created above the waterfall, a bed of moss and a sun-soaked field in the wild mountain country hemmed in by wildfire.

And I ask myself now, seeing this world---Time unwinds its coil---can you walk upon that forgiving water? let your storm be roused and calmed in the same moment, the same rhythm, the same pattern? You won't drown, I promise. But you may very well fall, singing in tune and grinning through a thousand illnesses, into an impossible, ferocious love.

The Urge to Surge when the Verge is Splurged

August 30, 2024

I own the lake and the vast area consisting of its perimeter. As an investment, it began paying dividends almost immediately. Fed by a small stream, stocked with some of the finest trout and bass in the state, and located remotely from any road or trail, the lake was nothing short of divine.

That is until last Thursday.

I heard its rotors disturb my morning coffee. I noticed its shadow move slowly. It was a drone mapping the contents of nature’s masterpiece. It never noticed me or my Springfield as I was sighting in the harbinger of doom before I scored with the perfect shot. The drone fell among the retaining stones on the north side, crashing into pieces. Using a net, wearing a mask, I retrieved the remnants and cast them into the fire barrel for a proper disposal. In doing so, I bought myself nearly a day before its owner either sent a second drone to recon the area (most likely) or brave the arduous hike required to verify its demise.

This would be a battle I could lose in a war I had to win.

My “NO TRESPASSING” were affixed in various conspicuous places. My entry gates were locked and camouflaged preventing detection. I turned off my generator so as to discourage intruders using a mechanical excuse to parlay a rendezvous. I sat in solitude awaiting the inevitable.

I did not have to wait as long as I thought I would wait.

First, I heard the whistle. Let me rephrase that. I heard her whistle. The tune was “Jimmy crack corn and I don’t care.” Then I saw her as she whistled. She was marching (somewhat) to her pace, most likely, as a measuring metric to estimate the distance she was walking. Her backpack was packed for two (perhaps) three days sans a tent. She carried a fishing pole and a compass.

I had to watch what she would do next.

Once at my lake’s edge, she dropped her pack and removed a notebook and a charcoal pencil. For the next two hours, she began to sketch the glory of my property in all of its midday presence. She was meticulous and thorough, detailing the pussy willows and the waterfowl contained within. No camera on this one. No radio or phone in use. She was a throwback to a quieter time, a more patient time, reminiscent of why I sojourned here in the first place.

By 3 pm, she had discovered my favorite spot for a campfire. Already stocked with kindling, she took it upon herself to help herself and begin her own fire. Out from her backpack came a small cup, a bottle of water, what seemed to be coffee, and the cheeriest greeting toward my location asking me to stop hiding and partake in a delicious french roast she ground herself.

No sense in continuing covert operations. I walked into the clearing and greeted her.

“You owe me for a drone.”

“You are trespassing on my property.”

She smiled at the conclusion of our brief penultimate exchange before initiating another.

“Hello, my name is Eve. What is yours?”

I almost laughed, but remained stoic instead and played along.

“Madam, I’m Adam.”

The Parson said it would take nearly a week for him to find us and complete the ceremony’s paperwork.