Bowl of Cherries

It's a cheery thought, really, despite its outward appearance. Most things can be cheery if you really try. You just have to come at it from a different angle. Most things. There's an exception to every rule... don't tell me about the paradoxical circles that makes. I don't want to hear about them.

Cheery thoughts.

How many hours left? I don't know; I'm getting tired of counting. The clock blinks a bright four-in-the-morning at me, but I'm too awake to even begin to think of trying to sleep... I can't. I've filled my belly with ice cold water in an attempt to freeze the butterflies into blue crystals, but I haven't stayed still enough to find out if it's working.

It can be a cheery thought... Cheery is red. I don't like red. But red is the color of cherries and strawberries and blood, and I like cherries and strawberries and blood keeps me alive and able to make cheery thoughts...

I'm tired.

I roll over on my bed, my face pressed into the pillow. If it's four-in-the-morning now, that means in twenty-four hours it will be four-in-the-morning again, and a nice seven hours from then... Cherries and strawberries and blood, and a train will leave and I'll be the only one there at the station again. So how many hours is that? Thirty-one? I can't do math anymore. I'm sorry. I tried. I really did.

So.

What do you want to talk about?

It's four-in-the-morning, but I will make lists and pictures and then I'll know what to say to you in seven hours and in thirty-one hours.

Cherries?

I can make cherries. Thoughts are like cherries. Cheery thoughts are like cherries without stones. Oh, that's a song, and I know how to sing it... But you'll be long gone before I think I have the courage to sing you my song about cherries with no stones.

I have a cherry, a cherry without a stone. You'll get to go where you've always wanted to go, all your life. I know you'll be happy. And I'll be happy that you'll be happy, so somewhere along there, I should be content. You'll get to go and see all the things you've always wanted to see, and do all the things you've always wanted to do, and then... then maybe, when you come back, you'll tell me about it and I'll get to rest in your arms and listen to your voice.

If you come back.

Of course you'll come back.

And maybe, when you tell me about everything you've been waiting to tell me, I will be so amazed and interested that you will say, "You should go sometime."

But it's four-in-the-morning, and the future is still so very far away, and I have to have a bowl of cherries with no stones for you in seven hours.

My eyes sting and I drag my hand angrily across my face. I'm not supposed to cry.



The alarm startles me awake. I hate my alarm. It's a cherry stone in audible form. I move around in some sort of brain-dead mode, because I'm not ready to remember that I only have twenty-six hours left. Change clothes. Brush teeth. And hair, if I remember. Try to look decent. I don't care if I look decent. I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, because I will be so very very beautiful in twenty-seven hours... that's how it always works.

I somehow manage to swallow some sort of nourishing breakfast and tie my shoes in a horrendous knot that I'll never get undone. I don't care how it happened. My bowl of cherries without stones is only half-full, so I hope you've remembered to get some too.

It's too bright and warm outside to think. I let my deadened mind take me to the woods and I wander around, quite unprotected and vulnerable, pretending I don't know I'm crying. My bowl of cherries without stones might spill. But no. Not yet. Not till you're here to help me pick them up.

I stop walking and blink. I need to laugh. I need to pretend, I need to deny, I need to die in my head for awhile so I never, ever, ever have to think about all the stones I've left at home under my bed.

"Hello."

I wrap my arms around my stomach, holding down the ugly, clawed butterflies that want to make my intestines bleed.

"Hi," I say.

Turning around is too risky. In a moment. Just a moment.

"You okay?"

Stop sounding so concerned! I am fine. I have a bowl of cherries for you -- cherries without stones. Your favorite.

"I'm fine," I say, and turn around to smile. It's easy to smile at you. You look relieved to see my now tearless face, and you reach to grab my hand.

Twenty-five-and-a-half hours.

But we talk. We talk and I give you all my cherries, one by one, and they make you smile because you don't know how very carefully I've removed the stones and hidden them. I hide them so that you don't know how very jealous I am and how very selfish I am and how very much I wish you wouldn't go away. I am a good friend. I am a good friend, a good friend who loves you, and I don't want you to know how very much I want you to stay...



It's four-in-the-morning again. I'm awake, too awake to even begin to think of trying to sleep, and I'm out of cherries and only have a bowl of stones. I used up all my cherries. I gave them all to you. I don't know how to make these thoughts cheery anymore. You are going away from me, going to all the places that I've always wanted to go, all the things I've wanting to see, going to do all the things I've ever wanted to do... without me. I don't know what I'm going to do, I don't know how my cherry tree will survive. How did it grow without you, anyway?

I have seven hours.

The clock flashes an aggressive reminder into my eyes, but I can't blink or I'll start crying and I can't start crying because I'll never stop, and saltwater kills trees. Especially cherry trees. Especially my cherry tree.

I need to laugh.

I roll onto my back and stare at the pictures I've drawn on the ceiling. There's a lot of cherries, but I'm not obsessed or anything. I just need visual representations of things or I go insane and cry and kill trees. Cherry trees. My cherry tree.

There's also a train, stretching far away into a vanishing point that I don't know how to reach, and a sun that's dripping onto the train, and a very very small little girl standing beneath the train, holding a giant cherry in one hand and a giant stone in the other.

I'm very proud of my drawings.



The alarm wakes me up, and I remember how very much I hate my alarm. My eyes are swollen and tender and I wonder how long I cried. I don't sleep much anymore. I know a song about cherries with no stones, and now I only have two hours and I'll never sing it for you, and I never told you about my bowl of cherry stones and I don't think you know how very many cherries you've had.

I brush my hair down smooth and pretty today. Red seems appropriate for the occassion, so a small red ribbon is fastened around my ponytail. I wash my face and brush my teeth and I have tiny little sparkles of earrings that also seem somehow appropriate.

And I pull on my ratty shoes, cut the laces off with scissors, replace them with red braids that I made for this moment, and wander mindlessly outside.

I know where I'm going.

You're already there at the station, but we are an hour and a half early, and there's no one else here to hug you and take up your time and give you cherries. I think I'm the only one who gives you cherries. I've been careful. I've seen the look in your eyes when people show you the stones and cry about how much they'll miss you. I watched Lizzy kiss your cheek, and then burst into tears. I watched you hug her awkwardly, and you didn't know I saw. But I did. And I don't want to cry when I say goodbye. I want you to hug me like you're happy.

"How are you?" You ask. You sound happy, I think.

I smile. "I'm fine. How are you?"

You don't answer my question. You're watching my eyes.

"How are you?" You ask again.

Repetition is a bad sign.

"I said I was fine."

"How are you?"

"Fine."

"How are you?"

I stop and look away. The tracks stretch away forever, to that horrible vanishing point. I imagine another girl, perhaps not so small, perhaps not so fragile... perhaps a little prettier, perhaps looking like Lizzy. Lizzy never had cherries, but maybe this other girl will. Many cherries. Cherries to keep you from remembering me.

"Look at me," you say. Your voice is commanding.

"I'm going to cry," I reply.

"I was hoping so."

Your arms are around me, holding me close and tight, and the tears burn down my face but I don't try to stop them now.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, muffled.

"Never be sorry for letting me hold you."

"I'm sorry for crying."

"I'm sorry for leaving you."

My breath drags over my throat.

"You're a brave girl," you say, and I turn red to hear the smile in your tone.

"No, I'm not."

"Yes."

"I'm crying."

"I know."

You know about the cherries. I don't know. I never told you.

When you let go to look at me, I am embarrassed for my red eyes, red like strawberries and blood and ribbons and laces and cherries, but somehow it doesn't really seem to matter.

"I'll be back," you say. And you smile.

It's a cheery thought...

Rag Doll

It's been two moments. A day, a year, a minute, a second, each one of those are moments. It has been two moments. You are an idea, an image in someone's mind. You probably have a name. Right now you are Child, a shapeless form of wool stuffing, waiting to be put inside a body, a mind. It's early enough in the process that all you have seen are the good things in life, and all you have felt is joy and anticipation. You are waiting to become something.

The moments go by. Someone takes your shapeless lump of stuffing and looks at you. So many things can be done with thoughts this pure, a mind this tender. The fingers caress you, impressing you gently with permanent marks. You start to take form.

The moments continue to go by. You have something that resembles an arm coming out of the side of your chest. For the first time, you see a whole Doll on the workbench. Her arms are not raw wool; they are covered in soft, pale cloth. In fact, her whole body is covered in linen. She is tall and slim and her red mouth smiles stiffly. She is Complete.

You now have someone to aspire to be. One day, perhaps, if you work hard, you too can be held together by soft fabric, revealing who you are and what you do.

Your mind is changed now. There is more to life than being shapeless and happy. The moments go by, and you soon realize your raw wool face is covered with something warm and soft. Your face has been covered. You have a certain unique look to you now. Expressions of your very own.

The moments go by, and as you continue to explore the other Dolls you come across, you gain fabric on your limbs. You have a shape now. It is lumpy and imperfect, but it is who you are. You are ridiculously pleased with yourself. You have become someone.

You use your new powers in the moments to come. You find something long and black; it leaves a dark mark where you press it to the table. Carefully, you draw a smile across your lower face. Eyes. A nose. Suddenly your face has life to it — you can smile, blink, smell! Never mind that your eyes are uneven and your mouth is crooked. It is who you are.

Moments pass. You are happy with who you are. You are a Doll now. You are the Doll with the lumpy body and the crooked smile. You are happy.

You come across other Dolls. These Dolls are all Complete, just like you. You are Conplete because you are someone; you have eyes to see and a nose to smell and a mouth to smile. You have a mind to learn and discover. You are a Completed Doll. You find Society, and you join in.

You explore, eager to learn, eager to grow. Everything fascinates you. You are the Doll with the lumpy body and crooked smile, but that is you and no one else looks just like you. You are unique.

You rediscover the tall Doll from many moments ago. She is even more beautiful than you had remembered. She has sparkling blue eyes, so unlike your black ones. They are spaced evenly, while yours dot your face like a misguided case of two measles. Her mouth, her red mouth, is curved in a perfect smile. Suddenly, you feel small and flawed beside her. You cover your crooked smile with a lumpy hand and back away. She looks at you with her perfect blue eyes and stunning red smile, and you hide from her. You aren't fit to come before her.

You go home. You take a wet cloth and you wash your black eyes from your face. Your mouth comes next. You are blank except for your nose. You lose some of your individuality.

You find an old Doll who is willing to draw you new eyes and a new mouth, for only the price of your old black marker. You give it without a thought.

Not three moments later, you have blue eyes and a red, red mouth. You peer at yourself in a pane of glass and are pleased with your new beauty. You are different now. You are not as unique as you once were, but you do not think on that. You return to society and join the Dolls.

Moments go by. You are sitting outside, feeling the sun on your red mouth and your blue eyes. A Complete Dollstrolls by. He smiles at you, and goes on. Something was different about him, you know for sure. His eyes were blue, and his mouth was red, but you are used to that now. It no longer appears so beautiful. He had shimmering golden hair on his head. You have never seen anything so spectacular.

Your own head is bare. You are not perfect. You rush home and find a brown marker. Desperately, you attempt to give yourself makeshift hair. You look in a pane of glass, at you scribbled brown hair. You smile and think to yourself that you are much better now. You think that maybe, that Doll's hair wasn't as amazing as it had first seemed. The sun was on it.
You are just as beautiful now.

Once again, you enter society. You realize that many Completed Dolls have gorgeous hair like you saw before. Their wonderful, yarn hair makes you feel small and ugly with your scribbled marker hair. You go home, and you wash your brown hair off your head.

You find an old Doll who is willing to sew you some long, golden hair. He asks only for your brown marker. You give it gladly, and do not think twice about it.

You sit still through the delicate, painful procedure. When it is completed, you stare at yourself in the pane of glass. You are beautiful now. You are less special, you do not stand out as much from the crowds. You decide that is a good thing, and you go back into society.

Moments pass. You are pleased with yourself. You look wonderful. You have golden hair, blue eyes, and a red mouth. You are perfect.

One moment, you follow a group of Completed Dolls down to a beach. You watch from a distance as they remove their towels and reveal their smooth, even arms and legs. There is not a bump on their bodies where it does not belong. You slowly realize that your lumpy legs and arms look nothing like these amazing, slender ones.

You run home and give yourself a massage, trying fractically to even out the lumps of wool beneath your cloth skin. You cannot do it.

You find an obliging Doll who will kindly replace your lumpy arms and legs with pre-made, slender, smooth ones. She asks only for your old legs and arms for pay. You promise her that, eager to be rid of them.

This process is even more painful than the one before. Tears leak from your blue eyes as the needle pierces your cloth flesh again and again.

The horrible pain is finally over. You view yourself with glee in the glass pane. You look like the other Dolls, with no lumps or black eyes or brown scribble hair or crooked mouths. You see yourself as perfect once again.

Societly welcomes you more sweetly than ever. You revel in your newfound glory, feeling like pure beauty.

As you are coming home one moment, you stop and think. Three times you have found something wrong with yourself, and three times you improved. Perhaps your eyes are not open to your own flaws? Perhaps you are too blind to see what was mistakenly done to you during your crafting? This idea latches hold, and you become insecure and sensitive.

The next moment, you go to find a "Specialist Doll". That is what the sign above her door says. You ask her to tell you if you have any flaws.

She explains with a voice like honey. You discover you are too short. Your stomach pokes out where it should be flat. Your face is too round; it should be more teardrop shaped. You have no eyebrows. Your nose is too big. Your feet are too flat. Your hands are nothing but ovals on the end of your arms. Your hair is all one color. And your cloth skin color is just not the fashion.

You hear all this and you start to cry and curse the person who crafted you. Whoever they were, they made so many mistakes that it was hardly worth keeping your life. You tell this to the Specialist Doll.

"I can fix you," she says sweetly. "I only ask for a few things in return..."

You agree, in near hysterics. Anything to become perfect.

Too many excruciating moments later, you are finished. You are taller, more slender. Your stomach doesn't poke out any longer. Your face is a perfect teardrop. You have thin, delicate eyebrows and your nose is neat and tiny. You have four fingers and a thumb. Three red strands hang down your head, in place of three discarded golden ones. And every thread of your skin has been replaced with a warmer, browner, more incredible cloth.

The Specialist Doll takes your discarded hair, your old skin, your lump hands, the filling from your stomach and face that she removed. She leaves with a smile and you do not see her again.

You are delighted with yourself. Everywhere you look, you see beauty equal to yours. You have become what society wanted, and there is no where else to ascend to. You look around and are happy.

The moments go by. No one smiles at you anymore. No one sees you at the corner of two streets. No one speaks to you. You are part of society now. They don't see anything different than everyone else. They hold no respect for who you are, because you are just like everybody. You do not know what to make of this.

One moment, you sit on the beach and watch the waves roll in. You are thinking. You think that perhaps, if you could find one more flaw in yourself and fix it, you would become noticed again.

A young Doll comes by. She is very young. Her eyes are black dots, her mouth is drastically bent. Yet she is smiling. You notice her because her body is short and lumpy.

She looks up at you, and she looks amazed. You look at her little black eyes with your blue ones. She looks in awe, then in uncertainty, then in shame.

"Child," you say softly.

She stops, looking up at you, embarrassed to be seen, unfit as she is.

You lean closer. You want to say a thousand words, warning her, telling her that she is perfect just the way she is. You open your red mouth. Three words. You say three words.

"You are beautiful."

Green

"What's on your mind, love?"

I lean against you to let you know that  I'm trying to think. There's a lengthy process in my mind before anything comes out of mouth.

What's on my mind?

I don't know. I am almost completely content just to hear your voice, to be with you, to take your hand and know you won't mind. You might even like it. You probably will, but I pretend you just don't mind so that when you take my hand first I bubble up with a surprise happiness.

What am I thinking of?

I... I like your smile. You should smile more often. I think you and I should go on a walk and you should tell me that you really want to be with me and you're not doing it out of guilt. I'm thinking about how small and stupid I feel when I want to hug you but all I know how to do is stand dumb and keep my mouth shut. I'm thinking about wishing you would tell me you want nothing more than to hold me forever and ever and tomorrow. I'm thinking.

I know you love me, just say it again because I'll never get tired of hearing it. And I love you too. I love you more than words can say. You can't beat that. Heh.

Years are such a bothersome way to measure time. Time is a line, stretching from forever to forever, and maybe, if you want, you and I could share a little bit of forever. If you wanted to. You know. If you wanted to go psycho and stab me multiple times and tell me you hated the blood that gave me life, I'd probably let you do that. If you wanted to.

Because if you went psycho and murdered me, at least I'd be dead and not living for the rest of my forever knowing you hated me and that I was annoying you with my helpless little attempts of affection.

That's not really very funny.

I'm thinking about how very much I've missed you lately, and how sorry I am for being shy around you when I don't have to be. I'm sorry for wanting you to hold me so much. I'm sorry for wanting you to tell me you'd hold me forever.

Heh.

I'm sorry for being such a silly girl.

I'm like a broken robot who isn't supposed to have emotions. I'm trapped with my arms waving frantically, with only one way of expressing a need for communication. I can see all those images of me laughing at my more robot-self, and then my daydream ends with my robot-self being pumped full of lead and falling over in a sad little heap.

I die a lot in my daydreams.

Really, it's not funny, but I know how to laugh at it. I watch too many bad cartoons. Heh. Sorry.

And I love you.

Remember.

More than words.

And that's saying something. I am the master of unsaid words. The queen. I'm a queen.

I want to be with you.

"What's on your mind, love?"

I smile, and look up to your eyes, which are a lot higher than mine.

"I like the color green..."

Queens and Ruby Gems

"I am two inches tall. Two inches tall, half a voice loud, a dance step between half-way and full."

I pause for a moment, my breath held and reluctant. Three pairs of expectant eyes are on me, waiting for the last sentence. The last sentence is always the most important. I think they finally understand that.

"And I am your worst nightmare."

Four released sighs come, and the paper slides out of my hands to settle alone on the floor. There's a fake relief pressing against the back of my throat, because they don't understand how immensely pleased with myself I am right now. They don't understand.

Jack gets up and picked up the paper on the floor. He gives it a once-over, acknowledges that I didn't write the last sentence on the page, and throws it away. Frankie is pretending to sleep, her arm resting over her eyes, a sign of irritation. Royal is watching me, and I imagine his eyes to be drowning in disappointment. I swallow my hurt and encourage indignance to burn a little brighter.

"You don't understand," I say, angrily, but with the acute feeling that I wouldn't be taken seriously.

"We understand," Frankie said from the couch. "We understand, sweetie, and that's why we're trying to help."

"I don't want you to help. I'm happy this way."

"I know you don't want our help. But you're not happy." Frankie flings her arm from her face and stands up, forcing a weak smile. "You were doing good, sweets. You can do it. Just keep trying."

I avoid her eyes so she doesn't know that I don't try. I never really try.

"Write us another one, will you?" Jack looks cheerful, but I am almost sure he's faking it. He was hoping that I'd come through and do things their way, but I won't. I like my way. My way helps me feel better.

"Yes."

"Thanks." He hugs me and plants a brief kiss on the side of my head.

***

They don't understand.

I have taped all my past speeches onto the wall of my room. I don't sleep here, but it's my room nonetheless. It's the room I'd like to have as my bedroom, but there was always some obscure reason I couldn't. It doesn't matter. It has everything I need: bright colored walls, too many pillows and bean bag chairs, crayons and an endless supply of paper, a laptop and a printer, cupboards for junk food, and an old ratty couch that I absolutely love. My room has the perfected form of cliche, and that's where I go with Jack and Frankie and Royal when I read my speeches.

I practically live in my room, but no one needs to know that.

All my speeches end the same way. "I'm your worst nightmare." "I fall and shatter like china." "I am a shadow and a lie." They all end that way. Frankie first found out when I sent her a letter. She told Royal and Royal told Jack... and Jack...

I suppose I should love them for it.

I smash my fist into a pillow and wait heatedly until the clock says 11:11pm. And then I start to write.

"I am a queen. A queen, a queen of words and of expression. I know how to love. I know how to be... I know I am real. I am a walking masterpiece, a ruby gem, a candle floating on the ocean. I am... I am."

The keys are muffled, the sound pounding against my ears, but I can't stop to think. Jack will be able to tell; Frankie and Royal, probably not. Sarcasm has always been a strong point of mine.

Ruby gem. Ha.

The hours flash by and I know that I will regret my late nights, but Mom doesn't care when I get home and there's no school over the weekends. At least Jack cares about me. Really only one person need have concern, and I don't have the time. So Jack nominated himself. I'm not complaining. He's better at it than I am.

The paper ends. Of course I am pleased with it. I am always pleased with my work. I have to be pleased with it, because that keeps the horrible drug of insecurity from burning my hair off. Insecurity makes me do funny things.

I'm lost and wandering in circles, and writing is a long delayed detour that brings me out of repetition for awhile.

I don't put the last sentence in, because that's a spur-of-the-moment necessity that comes with a sacrifice. Everything comes with a sacrifice.

I print my paper, turn off the lights, jerk my boots on and tramp outside. The walk to my house is a short one, but it's four in the morning and even my anger can't keep that little bit of fear from stiffening my back.

Mom's already asleep. I knew she didn't care.

***

"Hey, sweetie," Frankie says, throwing her thin arms around my neck. I hug her back tentatively; it always unnerves me when they're here before I am. I gave Jack a key so I suppose it makes sense. Jack's on the old couch, and I go sit by him while Frankie goes to make some sort of snack that I shouldn't eat.

"Royal's coming," she calls back. I'm already half asleep on Jack's shoulder.

He's in a good mood today. I open my eyes uncomfortably; he's probably expecting today's speech to end well. He always expects that. He expects too much of me. I'm not that perfect. Anger bubbles in my stomach for awhile, and my eyes sting, but it's not hard to remember that he's still here with me and hasn't disappeared because I wasn't good enough...

Royal bursts in, his eyes alive and brisk. He's probably been up since five in the morning, milking cows or some other ridiculous task -- for the fun of it. He's a strange boy. Sometimes I wonder what Frankie sees in him.

"Morning," he booms. He nods to me, but I pretend to be asleep again.

Jack smiles against my hair. "Sleep well, girl?"

"I didn't sleep," I reply.

"Writing?"

"Always."

"How was it?"

"Wonderful."

"I'm sorry, love."

"Me too."

"You okay now?"

"I'm a ruby gem."

He knows me too well to say anything to that.

Frankie brings cocoa and crackers and Jack pushes me off his shoulder and tells me to eat. I do only out of irritation. I want to go back to pretending to sleep. Royal is chattering about his wonderfully fantastic morning, and Frankie is laughing because she's so beautiful and I am silent because I am angry.

"It's unfair to be angry," I blurt, interrupting Royal's story about some stupid goat giving birth.

Jack and Royal are quiet; Jack because he knows me and Royal because he doesn't. Frankie doesn't even look at me. "Why's that, sweets?"

Why does she have to call me that?

"I'm angry," I say.

"I can see." She eyes me. I hate how beautiful she is.

"It's not fair."

"Why's that?"

I glare at her.

There are no words, and I lean against the couch back stiffly. Jack is eating and doesn't pay any attention to me. Part of me is glad he's not patronizing my fit of irritation, and part of me wishes he'd treat me like he loves me more than anything on earth.

Really, though, that's what he's doing. Even if I won't admit it.

Royal goes back to talking, Frankie back to laughing, and I close my eyes and pretend I'm sleeping. I listen to Royal's voice without hearing his words, and pretend that Frankie is as ugly as I am, and pretend Jack isn't here and that's why he's not holding me.

"Hey," Jack says. Quietly. Royal and Frankie are gone, happily ignorant in their bubble of Royal-and-Frankie.

"Hello," I say. My voice is hard. I am still angry. It's unfair.

"Will you read what you wrote?"

"Gladly."

Jack squeezes my hand once and I stop being angry. It's kind of funny how it works that way.

The paper slides off the printer into my hands, and I don't read over what I've written. It's better if I just start. My heart fell onto this page last night, and the only four people in the world who understand that are sitting in this room.

I meet Jack's eyes briefly.

"I am a queen..."

It flows. It breathes. I created life, life with this piece of paper and ink. I am the words. I am words. I am what makes the words, I am words. I am. That is who I am. I am...

It comes to a close, and I enjoy the short second of suspense as I draw my breath.

"...I am a queen, as a queen is a chess piece, as a chess piece is broken when the game is over."

And I drop the paper.

Oh, it was beautiful. It was my most beautiful yet. Pride burns against my throat, but I know they will be disappointed. They wanted me to end with a lie. They wanted me to say I was still a queen, a ruby gem, a candle... that's what they want me to say. That's what they want me to believe.

Frankie stands up. Her eyes have lost some of that glow, and she crosses the room to hug me. "Good attempt, sweets."

I don't say anything.

Royal looks down, looks up, looks away. He's such an awkward person for being so smart. He also gets up, comes over, gives me an uncertain clap on the shoulder. I want to laugh in his face. Don't touch me.

Frankie is mad. She says they have to go. Royal is an obedient puppy and he follows her out the door.

Jack hasn't looked up yet.

"I'm sorry, Jack." My voice lies. I am not sorry. I am glad. I am glad I made Frankie mad, and I am glad I made Royal unsure. I am glad. I am...

He gets up and picks up the paper from the floor. He gives it a once over, again taking note that I did not write the last sentence on the paper. His mouth curves in a funny little smile.

"Hey, love..."

I watch him warily as he throws the paper away and comes near me. My face is suddenly wet. I don't know when I started crying. He puts his arms around me and holds me close and I hide against him, safe, safe, so very safe now...

The game doesn't have to be over yet.

Rafiq-Ayman and the Man-Who-Reads-The-Stars

An Original Arabian Tale


Rafiq-Ayman was born with the moon between the earth and the sun, and the first sound out of his mouth was laughter. His mother went to pray at the temple to the great and all-powerful Allah, her lips against the ground, giving up her thanks for her child.

In the fourth week of his eighth year of life, Rafiq-Ayman was approached by a Man-Who-Reads-The-Stars. His mother was in great awe, and offered many rich foods and good wine at his feet, to gain his good opinion. He blessed her with his hands on her head and presented prayers to heaven before her.

And he bent before Rafiq-Ayman, who was trembling with fear, and spoke these words to him: "O my son! There has been a sign among the heavens that you are of great strength and will save many from an unwanted death."

Rafiq-Ayman did not understand, and he fell prostrate onto the ground and wept. His tears wet the ground and created mud which soon covered his hands and his face.

"Arise, O my son," said the Man-Who-Reads-The-Stars. "Arise and do not weep."

Rafiq-Ayman arose and stood once again, his features much covered with the mud of the earth.

The Man-Who-Reads-The-Stars touched a finger to the dirt on the lad's face. "Just as your tears have created this mud on your face, so your tears will move the hardest of hearts. May it be well with you, O my son."


It was many summers later when Rafiq-Ayman's mother died and was buried under the red sand. There was a great crying in the city, and many tore their clothes and sprinkled themselves with white ashes. Rafiq-Ayman stood still beside the grave and no words came from his mouth.

And in that time, there came a imam who was cruel and unjust, and many were killed under his command. Those who lived in the village with Rafiq-Ayman were greatly distressed, and some began to lose their minds and lie screaming, with wildly rolling eyes, in the dirt outside the village gates.

The elders of the village could not use their tongues to soften the heart of the cruel leader, and all seemed lost. They at last came to Rafiq-Ayman and pleaded with him to try and convince the imam to be merciful to the children and women of the village and not to let young and beautiful blood run red in the streets. Rafiq-Ayman bowed his head, and said, "I am young and foolish; but I will try, as hope is flown away as the birds of winter."

And so Rafiq-Ayman went before the imam and bowed with his forehead touching the ground. "O mighty one," he said.

The imam looked down at him, and his eyes were hard and lacking of any feeling. "Arise, dirt of the earth, and speak before I have my men run your chest through with spears."

"O mighty one," Rafiq-Ayman said. "May the gods have mercy on you! May the great Allah himself resist from burning you with his anger!"

The imam was scornful. "I do the bidding of the gods and of none other."

"No, O mighty one. You have been deceived by the devils of the earth. Listen! Can you hear? The voices of a thousand babes are wailing in the street! Take up a bowl of water! Do you see? The blood of those who worshipped you as a god has contaminated even the water you drink! The gods are not pleased with you."

The imam raised his hand to command his men to stab Rafiq-Ayman. But Rafiq-Ayman raised his eyes to the heavens and cried in a loud voice, "O almighty Allah!" And tears fell from his eyes and wet the floor before the imam's feet.

The imam was startled, and as he watched the tears of sorrow fall from Rafiq-Ayman's eyes, he began to soften inside. His heart was torn by those tears like acid on stone, and his soul wept. He rose to his feet and his hand came to his side.

"Abdul," he said to Rafiq-Ayman (Abdul is the name that means "servant). "Arise and send yourself back to the village. I see now that I have wronged the gods and the almighty Allah. For each drop of blood that runs in the streets, I will give bread and wine to the poorest. For each body that lies in heaps outside the walls, I will repay with coins and gold. May it be well with you, O my son."

And Rafiq-Ayman returned to the village and was from then on known as the Man-Who-Cried.

Binds of Writing

Binds of Writing

What if you and I got in a convertible and drove away?

What if I kissed you on the cheek when you were driving? What if you were distracted and someone from behind hit us? What if we spun out?

What if you died?

I close my eyes and spread my hands over the still-wet ink. I can't stop this anymore. I can't stop the words. The hills I make turn into mountains until I'm writhing under their weight, screaming with pain, my voice echoing forever off the air and the sky.

I can't stop those words from coming.

The pen is an easy escape. It burns through my mind and cuts open my skin with its scalding blade. My blood comes from my wrists, decorating those horrible white pages, sending it on and on through the layers until everything quietly, peacefully goes dark...

No.

The pen is an easy escape. It builds towers. Beautiful towers. Words upon breathing words, making me alive again. The pen is a mystery, a channel, something to keep me from constantly calling your number and crying to you in hysterics because I just can't keep up anymore. I love to be near you because you make me feel like I really matter, but won't you get tired of it? And so the words come; an artificial respiration, a protection, a guarantee that you'll never ever ever stop loving me.

The words I have written smear on the pages, and my fingertips are black from the ink. My what-ifs are growing. I can't starve them. I can't destroy them. They crawl back up my arms and into my mind, freezing me, torturing me, killing me.

No. No, they don't.

I hate words. Words are a distraction. A misconception. An excuse. Words build shadows and keep me away because I am afraid to share. Words have a seductive beauty, whispering their superiority to actions, to pictures, to me. Words are who I am. They told me so.

No, I'm not.

If I couldn't use my words anymore, would you still know I loved you? Words keep me from talking to you. They press down on my shoulders, driving nails through my throat, sewing my lips shut in an eternally painless manner. The torment is mental, emotional — never physical. But oh, so beautiful... So beautiful...

What do I want to talk about?

I want to talk about my words.

I want to talk about my eyes, which burn with days gone without tears. I want to talk about my hurt, the hurt that spreads so evenly I can't place the origin. I want to talk about loneliness, the dull aching anguish that removes my hunger and creates the most pleasant feeling of nausea.

I want to talk about my words.

The sheets of paper blur for a moment before my eyes, but I blink away the tears. I have no reason to cry. Why do I cry? Crying is the difficult escape, the escape that shatters invulnerability and crushes confidence.

Flames enjoy my words, they thrive on my words, they are addicted to my words. They devour any page I let within their reach. My paralyzingly frightening what-ifs disappear into a charred freedom that sits warm and pulsing beyond my redemption.

But they never leave.

In my mind, I take hold of your hand and keep it tight, a wordless apology for my failures, for my stumblings, for my words. I am ashamed of my words. I want to be able to speak without using my words. So many people don't understand.

Do you?

Sleep is relief only because the endless task of translating is temporarily ceased. It's simple language now, visual language, my native tongue. Everyone speaks words to communicate, and so I learn. I keep learning. I learn for you.

The clock strikes three, all is dark and silent, cold and empty. The fire has eaten my lettering and is now relaxed. Sleep drags me into dreams, and I see you and for once I can tell you exactly what I want to without my metaphors and seemingly unrelated thoughts. The what-ifs disappear into a cloaking blackness, leaving me safe and secure and thoughtless.

Thoughtless.

Secrets

The lights are all off, because the darkness makes it easier to see. There's footsteps through the halls, but it's nearly impossible to tell their age. Abandonment has been all this building has known for years upon crying years. It seems to hold secrets, but even the secrets are somehow unimportant; just as outdated as useless as the people who once treasured them.


Geoffrey has been an officer for almost twelve years, and the weight he's gained hangs out over his belt. He's tired, and making another stop at this house has never been high on his priorities list.


He's got kids at home. Hannah's sick. He's not sure how much longer she'll live, even with the chemicals of artificial life pulsing through her blood. He's been looking at caskets. The small ones. She was never very big.


It's almost like he's shopping for death.


The flashlight wavers and tumbles out of his hand.


***


There's so much to look at once you get inside. It practically begs vandals and hoarders. For the most part, it has been left alone, as Geoffrey takes his job seriously. He's never been inside; it never was of much interest to him. 


***


Hannah closed her eyes and breathed her last in little pain, on a cold March day without rain or wind. The cemetery seemed almost reverent when she arrived; a prize to hold forever under the grass that wouldn't grow.


Geoffrey sits on a folding chair, his heavy head in his hands, his eyes hidden from those two stones he hates and loves with all his tortured heart. He only has so many lights in his heart. Two have already gone out, and he's not sure how many more it's going to take before he gives up.


***


The years don't stop, even for sorrow. Geoffrey passes on at an early age, a victim of smoke and guilt. The vandals start up again, and the house misses some windows and valubles. The words that fill the walls are vulgar in sound if not speech, and upstairs the dust falls quicker and is wet by a few misplaced drops of water.


***


The house has suddenly become an item of extreme interest. Archaeologists and tourists alike pile in, exclaiming and exploring with their voices, warned not to touch but spread their fingerprints over ever surface.


"There's a staircase, over here," Dr. Yavich remarks, indulging completely in the little interest he has. Anything that is an excuse to forget is welcome to his tired mind. The newspaper folk and reports surge to the staircase, forbidden to go up, but pushing the limits nonetheless.


Yavich joins the wave, unable to let go, unable to think of anything but this house. It's all that matters. He can't go back.


A forgotten portrait hangs on the wall, depicting a pretty young woman holding an unsmiling baby. 


Heat floods to Yavich's face, his fingers coated with frost.


***


Mrs. Yavich comments on a newspaper article. "There's ad for a girl that's been lost, mm," she says, her drunken voice slipping over the less important consonants. 


"Been lost?" Conversation was easy. Repeat the last two words. Don't engage. Don't think.


"Mm." A page flips slowly. "Been lost, used to live in that old house, you know. Says she might be dead."


Yavich drops his head into his hands, tremors sliding up and down his veins.


***


The news is splattered with stories of a stabbing. Nothing is surprising; this is unfortunately common in the city. The story of the missing girl disappears with the appearance of a death, and Yavich is violently ill. The money he does not have for his wife's addiction goes directly to the doctor, and the word debt grows higher on his forehead.


Mrs. Yavich is found passed out in a bar.


***


Geoffrey's nephew, who is now 47, has taken his uncle's place at the police station. His daughter is getting married, and he has never heard of Hannah. He sits at the desk, waiting for his shift to be over so he can go home to the love of his life. Her name is Tessie.


A old man crashes through the doors. His bony hands are clutching a broken cellphone, and he's crying like you've never seen an old man cry. Geoffrey's nephew starts and leans over the desk.


Yavich turns himself in as a witness who stood by and let crime take its course. A death was ensued. Shame is a slave-master.


***


Three years have passed, and there's someone upstairs in the house. Her face is hidden, but it has been plastered on paper so often that she's almost part of the earth. She's crying. 


Around her on the floor are pictures. Hannah. Geoffrey. Mrs. Yavich. Tessie.


And...


The lights are all off, because the darkness makes it easier to see. There's footsteps through the halls, but it's nearly impossible to tell their age. Abandonment has been all this building has known for years upon crying years. It seems to hold secrets, but even the secrets are somehow unimportant; just as outdated as useless as the people who once treasured them.


So it doesn't matter.


***


The house burned down in a freak accident, along with everything it ever contained. An investigation brought back little; there was no paper left in the house. Questions arose, but it was too late. 


Underneath the rubble and ash lies a curled up body, charred beyond recognition.


It doesn't matter anymore.

Hello.

Hurt
But I swear it doesn't matter
It never matters anymore
It's all part of this
Of this religion
Relationship
This system of steps
A checklist
To mark against your actions
And I still know how to cry
But when I do
You never know

Trapped
All in all and everything
But escaping
Escaping
Escaping is just another step...
This circle of circles
Hello.

Shipwreck

She came, every other night except Sunday, and stood in the darkness. The glass wall of soundlessness stretched across the field, expecting nothing and least of all to shatter. No one to watch, no one to care, no one to crush hopes and no one to cause pain. Nothing to hinder her; even the silence would soon give way to stronger forces.

The school was a building of many emotions and shared memories, but even as she laughed, she was separated from that strange sort of unity that she never seemed to be able to achieve. Voices were just a staircase to a second landing, and then a third, and a fourth, all the way to the floor of graduation when you could finally leave. Relationships were handrails, something to keep you steady, something to look forward to. Once you were at the top of the steps, what need was there for something to keep you up? It was almost a disappointment, to realize it was all just an elaborate learning experience.

It all cleared out by three in the morning, however. The angry whirlpool they called a student body was vanished, and all was empty and warehouse-esque again. The football stadium gave the greatest sense of openness, cold and quiet, and so very, very desolate.

And there she was, every other night except Sunday, a still silhouette, on the roof of the stadium. It didn't really matter how she managed to get up there, or how she managed to enter the school without setting off the alarms. It was important only that she did it, and that regardless of being caught, she was never turned in.

She wore only a light jacket, though the temperature was far below twenty degrees. There was no snow, for snow rarely fell until well into February. Her arms were stiff by her sides, her eyes toward the end of the field. The pressure of the noiselessness seemed as though it would knock her off her feet, down to an abandoned death on the eternally frozen ground.

And then it was shattered.

Her voice spread out over every surface and through every current of the air, almost murderous in its strength. Everything seemed to awake and tremble with an inconceivable sort of life, as if it were breathing for the first time since the last time she sang. Her almost unearthly strain shared a thousand stories with every note, begging to be heard and understood. The words didn't matter, even if she were singing words, they would be lost against the flow of the song. She was alive.

It went on for perhaps not even a minute, and then all was quiet once more. It seemed though that even the silence was adrenalized and would be until her feet carried her away again to an idea of sleep and a hope of a dream, where her deformed view of the world could be released and explored.

Down on the ground stood a shocked young person, but even he was inconsequential at this moment. The revelation he had experienced was only a very small step, and he would never say anything to her or make any indication that he had shared in this release of emotion. He would go home and he would sleep and when he awoke, he would convince himself it was all a dream, and when he saw her in the halls, he would duck his head, ashamed of dreaming of such a strange girl.

She was used to it. The bruises up and down her arms from ignorant antagonists, the broken bones that had been passed off as an unlucky accident, the tear-swollen eyes when she left that everyday-prison's walls -- she was used to it all.

And still she came, every other night except Sunday, and stood in the darkness. The glass wall of soundlessness stretched across the field, expecting nothing and least of all to shatter. No one to watch, no one to care, no one to crush hopes and no one to cause pain. Nothing to hinder her; even the silence would soon give way to stronger forces.