The Hitchhiker's Love Song

We see each other all the time. He'd strap a polaroid camera around his neck, collect a picnic basket and me in the beat up old truck and we'd ride - hours of sunshine and starlight, laughing at the giddy polaroids gathering in the backseat. The AC pumped out an intoxicating blend of summertime and memory and we laughed more, drunk it in, heady as an October evening. The stereo was the sound of our heartbeats, ribboning forth like a kickdrum, eternal as the wind.

We stopped often at first, doing nothing much - checking the headlights before it got dark, keeping time by the blinkers, taking laughing polaroids of the rest stops and state lines, of the two of us chewing sandwiches served from paper sacks. Lately, we've just driven and driven even though the farming towns and railroad tracks are forgotten before they're even seen. We ignore the exit signs now, ignore the restaurants and their gaudy paper napkins, just keep on driving.

We could drive like this forever, you know.

I like it when you drive better. It frees up my hands to ruffle your hair when the wind musses it and to grip the consul between us when the road turns or you start going very fast.

I tease you about your grandfatherly driving, the left-right-left-again adage and driving slow being more than just a big laugh. But we laugh anyway, you and I.

Our favorite time of day is just before the sun begins to set. In this golden light, everyone is beautiful and even our polaroids look simply lovely. Maybe it's the colorblindness you have that perceives the world in whites and greens,  or my rose-colored sunglasses, but even we are beautiful at twilight.

Sometimes, late at night, by moon or clouded skies, we pull the car to the side of the road and look at each other in the silvery grey light that follows the golden evening. Our eyes glow like nocturnal creatures and sometimes we grow afraid. Usually, we sit there in silence, our lungs heaving up the taste of memory and, still in silence, our fingers lace together like shoestrings.

Neither one of us ever stops the radio, except in those silent times without laughter. We need the sound to show us that the car is alive and will keep on running. We learn to listen for our heartbeats on the radio, proving that we are alive too. Because if all the polaroids are any measure, we're going to be here a long while yet. The wind and road signs remind us that we have a very long way to go until we get to the Pacific Ocean or Mount McKinley or the Continental Divide or wherever this old truck is taking us.  The silences will grow and the pictures will discolor. But as long as we're still here and not hitchhiking back alone, we know it's all going to be okay.

"Okay," I say, and we miss another turn.

"Okay," you reply, and crank up the radio, where our hearts beat in stereo sound.

And we know that no matter what happens, if the radio is running, the car will keep on going, and everything will be golden.

I wear a torn place on my sleeve

Behold, I will do something new,
  Now it will spring forth;
  Will you not be aware of it?
  I will even make a roadway in the wilderness,
  Rivers in the desert.

Do not seek the because - in love there is no because, no reason, no explanation...

I wear a torn place on my sleeve.
It isn't as simple as that.

I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness.

Even so, it is well with my soul.

Behold, a new thing comes like a dove.

The nails in the door glimmer with light and my head is light.

I stop.

I start.

I am  back to fishing. Fishing to forget.

I have bit my nails to the quick.

He says to be a shepherd.

I will feed his sheep forever.

Then you do not hate me?

Let us love and sing and wonder.

I grow excited again.  

There is  no because. 

Just a go.

a do.

a believe.

a love.

Yes, I am excited.

The nails drop to the ground.

Surely this man was the son of God!

And the rain begins.

I do not care what the gardener has to say.

I am weeping. And I do not wish to be told to go.

He is speaking and I do not want to listen.

Why? Because they have taken my Lord from me. 

There are lilies and sand.

I loved him. 

He says my name. 

I am altogether with him and my hands find his, the places the nails pierced

He says My God and Your God.

Never again will demons torment me.

Like a lamb

He was silent

Like a child

He did not weep

I am ashamed

I nail the door shut

I weep for him and 

wash my hands

Tell me you love me

Take me back to the start

It's not as simple as that.

You're a bad person.

You deserve your lot.

Don't bite the hand that feeds you

rrrip

TODAY YOU WILL BE WITH ME IN PARADISE

amen and amen

i have calmed and quieted my soul

indeed, this is a new thing

The nails fall broken

Love is always a new thing.

We do not understand.

So

show

us

your

grace

We believe

in the name of Love

our Father 

who art in heaven

We believe

in It is finished

in the water

and the blood

We believe in Joseph's wasted tomb

We believe in John's death

We believe in Peter's life

We believe in Mary's disgrace

And Pontius Pilate's downfall

We believe in the faith of a thief

Our sleeves are torn

Our hearts are whole

It is as simple as that.

(Isaiah 43:19, Anais Nin's Henry and June, and W.S. Merwin's The Nails provide the epigraph.)

I wear a torn place on my sleeve || A thief

Behold, I will do something new,
  Now it will spring forth;
  Will you not be aware of it?
  I will even make a roadway in the wilderness,
  Rivers in the desert.

Do not seek the because - in love there is no because, no reason, no explanation...

I wear a torn place on my sleeve.
It isn't as simple as that.

A thief

rip

rrrrrip

breath

out

blood

in

my

mouth

in my hands

nails

in my hands

darkpainbloodblackingoutheartbeat

rip

rrrrrip

breath

out

i am not afraid to die

just let me die now

throw me in an unmarked grave like the rest

rest

i need rest

no one will remember my name

to be honest, i'm glad. i'm not a good person

blacking out again

rip

rrrrrip

breath

out

memory and other things i don't need

sound and other things i don't want

beside me another forgotten

forgetful

what am i called again?

a thief?

a murderer?

a man?

there's another one beside me, wetting

me with his

black black black no air

rip

rrrrrip

breath

out

words

words

i have no use for words

why are you speaking

you foolish

what do they call you?

i don't even remember my name

let alone who you are

ogodogodogod letmedienowpleaseletmedie

rip

rrrrrip

breath

out

you are a fool

my brother

you are a fool

do you remember what you did to end up here?

i don't.

yes i do.

i can see the faces

don't you remember too, my brother?

and the one

the one in the center center center i can't

rip

rrrrrip

breath

out

i ask nothing of you

i have nothing i can ask you for

you who chose this

bloodbreathsourwineburningbloodbloodblood

i did not choose it

i do not regret it

what else could have been done me?

i would bow before you

but all i can do is struggle against these

nailsnailsnails

to say

rip

rrrrrip

breath

out

o LORD

remember me

when YOU

enter

YOUR

KINGDOM

for i will never see you again

but you will judge my soul

stretching up trying to

breatheagainstnails

will i ever

see

you

again

.
.
.

                       out




Paradise finds its existence.
(to be continued)

(Isaiah 43:19, Anais Nin's Henry and June, and W.S. Merwin's The Nails provide the epigraph.)

I wear a torn place on my sleeve || Pontius

Behold, I will do something new,
  Now it will spring forth;
  Will you not be aware of it?
  I will even make a roadway in the wilderness,
  Rivers in the desert.

Do not seek the because - in love there is no because, no reason, no explanation...

I wear a torn place on my sleeve.
It isn't as simple as that.

Pontius

The violins are a sweet song, and I like them much better than the cries of the dying and the ugly sound of a mob.

I like to think of myself as a gentleman. I'm not a bad man, not at all. I pay my taxes. Have a pleasant wife and a decent family. I do my job without deviation or bribery. I'm a servant of the people. Everything a governor should be. I'm not corrupt, not violent, just a genuinely good person.

So why do I sit here, cleaning blood out of my nails and pretending I can't see the way my hands are shaking?

My hands are clean. I have washed them many times.

But I can't escape the smell of blood. It's in my hair, in my hands, in the throats of the natives as they shout for it in the veins of the man who I am not responsible for, the one whose blood is running in rivers in Jerusalem.

He is not my responsibility. He is not my fault.

I stand up, thinking about going home. It's late, I think. My wife will be waiting up for me. It's long overdue for me to be headed home. And then I sit back down, feeling the olive trees around me and the weight of the world tipping dangerously. No. I can't go home. Not like this.

All of them shouted my name. Coupled it to things that I was afraid of. They say they know what they are doing.

No one knows the price of blood on your hands.

I don't allow myself to think about the one they call the king of the Jews.

He is not my responsibility.

If they had not brought up Caesar -

But they did. It doesn't really matter - I straighten and run my hands over the nails in the gate - I am a servant of the people. I will do as they ask.

My stomach churns. Somewhere, a murderer is laughing at his good fortune and getting drunk in celebration. Not that far away - I tell myself I can not hear the screams and smell the blood - there is a man on a hill who is innocent. I feel sick.

He is not my fault.

I never could get the hang of Passover. So  many Jews. Underfoot. Smelling of religion and subversiveness and mumbling frustration. I thought at first he was one of them. Just another Zealot calling for Roman blood.

He calls for his own blood.

He is innocent. I can not get past that.

I am all that a governor should be. I listened to my people.

So why do I stand, scrubbing at my hands as if they will never truly be clean, which, I think, they never will be?

Strange. I wash my hands and feel more dirty than before.

My wife has been crying her eyes out. She will say she knew it. She did. She was right.

No! I did what was right!

I can not get him out of my head. The way his tears were blood and his blood was water and the water that pours from the fountain is all blood too. I tell myself he is a criminal. I tell myself that the Jews want it this way. I tell myself that the lash in my hand was the scourge of justice.

I ignore the women - I refuse to give them names - who loved him most. His followers, who, with inked in lines on their bitter faces and frightened chewing-of-lips, cried their quiet tears.

The man they call the king called this love.

Love! Is this what you meant, you ignorant prophet?

Why can't I stop thinking of him? This is not the first death sentence I've given.

My stomach turns again.

He is not my responsibility. He is not my fault.

I wash my hands of you, you foolish martyr!

I look at my reddened nails and my heart seizes.

I will never be rid of him.

I know this now.

He will never really leave any of us, will he?

His silence is haunting. As deep as the ocean. Mysterious as death.

Or mysterious as love. I can not reconcile what I know and what the king said.

I feel the tug of life and of love in my stomach.

My hands shake.

He is not my responsibility.

He is

not

my

fault.



Love is irreconcilable.
(to be continued)

(Isaiah 43:19, Anais Nin's Henry and June, and W.S. Merwin's The Nails provide the epigraph.)

I wear a torn place on my sleeve || Mary

Behold, I will do something new,
  Now it will spring forth;
  Will you not be aware of it?
  I will even make a roadway in the wilderness,
  Rivers in the desert.

Do not seek the because - in love there is no because, no reason, no explanation...

I wear a torn place on my sleeve.
It isn't as simple as that.

Mary

My mouth tastes as bitter as nails. I could swear that when I saw his blood, it was mine too. My skin all over hurts. I'm quivering. I vomit up fear and shake more.

This is no place for a lady.

I am no lady, though, everyone knows that.

I can't stay here.

I run.

Until my feet are sore and bleeding and I'm beneath a palm tree somewhere far away and I don't really care what they think of me because, really, did they expect me to watch him die?

I know it shouldn't smell like blood here. Why does it?

I'm still shaking.

He won't die. He can't. He's like Elijah, my Lord. He is like Enoch. He will be taken to heaven in glory, I tell myself. But I can't shake the image of him, if indeed that was him, covered in blood and flayed skin, holding his insides in and carrying the burden of it all on his shoulders. Nails all in him.

He did warn us, I think. But never like this. Never did I picture it going like this.

My whole life is wrapped up in him. I don't know what I'd do without him.

It's with a sinking feeling that I gag and ask myself what this means. I just really don't know. I don't know anyone like him, my Lord.

What is really a marvel is the fact that it's been just a few years. I can still remember the days before my Lord. I envy, to think of it, the girls who will come after me and know him forever. Or something like forever. He's gone now, I try to tell myself.

The smell of sulfur always and the momentary appeasement of seven inner demons brought about by doing what they wanted, all the while sleeping in trees and by rocks and in homes I did not know. Blankly, I think that I was taken advantage of a lot, by the men and by the demons, but I really don't think I was. I invited it. I wanted it. But once it happened, I really wanted to take it all back.

He didn't mind the way I screamed. The thing I had become. I am not yet at a place where I can think about the seven demons and the way I was without crying. Maybe I never will.

Oh, who cares. Today I have a right to cry.

I have cried a lot in the past week. I think usually I'd be ashamed of this. But I've known what the others haven't, that this Passover is his death wish. I don't know what in me knew, but I've been mourning his death for days. Only now, when he is actually - probably, I say, not actually but probably - dead I can't accept it.

Maybe this is why I anointed him for burial on Sunday. I couldn't have done it today.

There's a nail on the tree trunk sticking out and my hand catches on it and bleeds.

I'm all alone now. I smell sulfur once again and I start to shake. I was alone before. I can do it again.

No. I really can't.

Anyone else, I'd say I'd fallen in love. But I know that's not what it is.

Is it fear that he's gone?

I watch the blood pool in my hand.

I don't know what love is.

I've had so many men in my life. It would be easy to write this one off as a particularly bad choice. Sorry, everyone, I picked a crazy blasphemer. Oops.

But lies taste like sulfur and I can't abide sulfur.

I gag.

I don't know how to love him.

Blood and dirt and vomit.

That's just it, isn't it? I do know what love is. It's him. But it is new. Newer than the blood sun rising up.

God! Give me back the demons and let him go!

I don't know

how

help

me

I've fallen

and

I

can't

find

my

way

back

he's a man, right?




There's more to him.
(to be continued)

(Isaiah 43:19, Anais Nin's Henry and June, and W.S. Merwin's The Nails provide the epigraph.)

I wear a torn place on my sleeve || John

Behold, I will do something new,
  Now it will spring forth;
  Will you not be aware of it?
  I will even make a roadway in the wilderness,
  Rivers in the desert.

Do not seek the because - in love there is no because, no reason, no explanation...

I wear a torn place on my sleeve.
It isn't as simple as that.


John

I weep a lot these days. They'd laugh if they could hear me say that, the men who travelled with me in the desert. "Really now, John?" They'd say, pounding nails for the tents into ground. "You, a weeping man? Where's the repent and fire business?"

Or maybe not. They had been there too, the first time I really wept before men.

My mother, when she was alive, would look at me with those sad brown eyes, turned golden by sun and by age and say, "John what is wrong?" I can't even count how many times she'd said that while I was growing up, because I did not weep. My mother was special that way. She always knew things. She saw things that others shut their eyes to, like how I never wept.

I miss mother, I think, with tears in my eyes. My father too. I think of them often these days, now that I see.

I remember being a much younger man and my father telling me about the child I was born to herald. He said love a lot, with his cloudy voice. "Father, I'm a man." I'd say. "Not some simpering magician, a prophet, Father. A prophet's passion must leave no room for silly love."

He wept at that.

For a long time, while I fought Herod among the lions in the desert, I told myself the same thing. I'd pound in the nails for my tent and say, "God is just."

I met the child, you know. The one my father used to tell me about, the Christ. He came to me as I shouted and my heart grew full of fire as I stood in the river, wet with the  Jordan and with teh sweat of righteous anger.

Oh no, Lord. I am unworthy to even untie your sandals.

I all of a sudden understood my parents in that moment. All of a sudden, my eyes were full of tears and I knew what was wrong with me when my mother asked. It was the same thing that my father had tried to ask me.

What is love?

Look how far I've come. I'm not sure if it is blood or tears running down my face. Far cry from the voice crying in the wilderness, I'm reduced to counting nails in the prison door, counting time by the shadows of the sun and times my enemy has asked me who I am now. What I am now.

My insides are being eaten away and my enemy exults and what do I do? I weep.

I weep for Herod and for the hungry fire of my enemy eating with pain at his soul.

I weep for the girl who dances while she asks for my death as a game and the way that she will one day weep in bitterness because her childhood has been stolen in fear.

I weep for my disciples, who laugh and preach and sing the psalms, but who will fall to pieces like a jar when I am gone. They just don't know. Please God, they don't know what they're doing.

Mostly, I weep for the child. My father was right. Love isn't what I thought it was. What love is this? He is my friend.

And I tremble as I think this.

I know him.

I weep.

I am just a voice, Child. I am yours, save me.

Somewhere, I think he weeps too, and there is glory in his tears.

My enemy is trembling now. I can see the devouring fire in his belly and I choose to stand and laugh amidst my tears.

This is called love, my enemy.

A dove alights.

I hear my Savior say, Thy strength indeed is small.

My head, my head

Tears fail not.

A nail falls like a pin dropping

And

i

with

it



Love is a  new thing.
(to be continued)

(Isaiah 43:19, Anais Nin's Henry and June, and W.S. Merwin's The Nails provide the epigraph.)

Pinkie Promise

The Boy's eyes are grey. Did they used to be grey? Suddenly it's all-important to the Girl - were his eyes grey or is that something that changed in the ages apart?

He blinks with that steadily unfocused rhythm and rubs his eyes. The Girl watches him, with her hands caught up in the softness of her skirt. They weren't grey before. She remembers now. They were green.

"I missed you." She says to the now grey-eyed Boy who is still glaring off into the middle distance, not seeing her, not seeing their house or the little garden she made while he was away or the small dancing hills out past. His eyes are a hundred thousand miles away in a dug trench.

See, everything's changed and everything's died. The Boy's died. Why she bothers to come and talk to him every day, why she says those silly stupid sweet things like I-missed-you and I'm-happy-to-see-you and I'm-here-for-you escapes her. Her Boy is gone. Maybe his Girl is gone too. One never can tell.

He isn't listening even now. There's anger in his jaw. Her Boy is never angry, he wasn't before, before the trenches and the helmets and the rickety cots.

"If you'll be the Fairy Queen, I'll be the Fairy King." He said. They're children, winged by their imaginations and dressed in pearls and mermaid laughter. His little round face pokes out from under the bedsheet tent they've made. "Here. I'll make you a daisy crown." His little thick fingers twist a rope out of the air and add daisies made from his mind and places it on the Girl's head. His green eyes widen. "You look beautiful, Queen Fairy. There is magic in us tonight" 

She's overcome with a sudden wave of missing. Loss and grief, not because he's dead, but because he's gone. Her Boy is gone. Her Boy, with his laughter and his kindness and his long fingers clasping her around her back when they hug hello - that Boy is gone and the big bad wolf has stolen his body to be given to hold a cruel man.

She doesn't want to believe her Boy isn't in there somewhere. She takes his hands.

"Must you go, Boy?" She said. They're in a tent again, but this time it's a white gazebo tent, with warm summer air all in her hair and his green eyes. The grass beneath them as they sit smells of apples and earth. They're leaning against each other in that way that couples do, and her veil gets tangled up in his bow tie. "I know what happens to people who go away to war."
"All is war, Girl." he says gravely. "We are always at war. I just have to leave home to fight my monsters."
"They'll steal your soul, and then I'll never see you again." She confesses her fear.
"I will never leave you alone. You won't let me. And I won't let you. Pinkie promise, right?" They hook pinkies and sit in the grass with their pinkies hooked. "We belong together, you and me, Girl. We're the Fairy King and Queen. That's the magic. And nothing can change that."

Boy! Why did we grow up? Why did we leave behind the green earth to fight?

He did come home to her, too many moments later. She greeted him at the door, her green eyes all full of magic and delight. Her white veil catches on his medal of honor but not on his eyes. That's when she first sees his grey eyes and the pinched up way his lips are brought together. He doesn't see her. He's seeing the fighting. The death. The pain. There's no more mermaid laughter in him. 
He is not her Fairy King any longer. He is a soldier, and he has forgotten the magic. 

Boy, can you hear me?

It's been something like a hundred years of this, Girl saying stupid lovey things to Boy, wishing and waiting, while his mind does marching drills in his nightmares. It's hopeless, but I think the moment she acknowledges that, all the magic will fall apart and, like the Boy had said, all will be war.

The Girl's eyes are dark with tears. This is why she feared growing up, why she feared letting the Boy go away. She closes her eyes and wishes she was a little girl again playing fairies in the sheet tent. But of course she's not. She's all grown up and she's almost out of magic too.

Her face is soft when she looks at the Boy. For the first time, she realizes how young he looks when he is afraid. Poor little thing. Trapped in a grown up nightmare all alone. Her breath hitches and she stretches out her fingers, all worn and thin now.

"I never break a pinkie promise." She says softly, and her voice catches. She hooks her pinkie into his and shuts her eyes.

Maybe there is magic in them yet.

Maybe magic is just another word for love.

Maybe the big bad wolf can't devour someone who gives everything in a pinkie promise.

Bad dreams are no match for magic fairy kings and queens.

The Boy's and Girl's eyes meet, and it is green.

So the Boy was right after all. All is war, because we all want to stay children forever, but the world demands we all grow up. All is war, because the world wants to suck the  magic out of our eyes and make us as grey as sand. All is war, because love is always worth fighting for, living for, dying for, saying silly things for, and promising far too much for. All is war, but we will win it. Green will always  eat away the grey.

Pinkie promise.

Crying for Grey Hamelin

Follow me, little children, and I will show you how to be free. Do you hear the sound of my wooden flute? It sings for you the song of love. It is a love song, darling. So follow me and I will teach you.

My eyes shall guide you and my song shall lead you. You must not see the cave walls around us, hush-a-bye, little children. My flute enchants you, does it not, my children? Your hearts will be made free.

That voice which cries in the mountains and among the desert streams, is not mine, my children (for mine you are now). Ignore that not-my-song, my loves, my ltitle ones. Your fathers can not hear you among the snow-filled caverns. You are mine now, and this is the song of freedom.

The children awaken among the dragon's lair and cry for grey Hamelin. What have we done, they cry. What did we do to get here?

The piper smiles and lifts the flute to his lips once more. The children open their mouths to cry and cover their eyes, but the sweet sound of chains does bind them. Their eyes turn to the heavens and all of us join hands and fall into the paradise that we call Hell. See, it's dark and it's quiet here, without the scary snow and the dragon with the flute.

One little child stands up and opens his eyes. His ears are bleeding and he turns from the piper and the open sky without the cave and he shakes his head. Slowly, slowly, then faster and faster and he sings.

The song is not new, but it's his father's song, and the wind's song, and the laughter's song, and the song the piper was trying to remember. It is the child's song.

It is the song of freedom. 

And the snow crumbles down.

To Remember How to See

In such a place, where the ghost queen kisses the ghost king as they dance in harmony, I suppose it's not so unusual, the love story that unfolded in harmful song. For this is a love story, and it is not mine, and yet, it is all mine.

Once there was a small green dragon with golden eyes. He loved a princess, long-haired, pointed-chin. She was not a ghost like her parents, but I suppose being raised by ghosts takes a toll on you. She was as young as the dragon boy, but she didn't seem it. Forgetting and remembering, over and over, had aged her. She smiled at him, and to her, that meant love.

She had a secret, and the secret was as large and terrible as the forbidden wood where he lived. She had read the stories handed down by faerie godmothers of centuries before, and knew that a dragon's heart is enough to stop age, to promote immortality, to restore to a prematurely old princess the youth she ought to have. And I think that was the reason she loved the dragon most - he could heal her, if she ate his heart.

He was silly over her. He loved her more than anything and he wanted nothing but her love. That's why he was sad, that day. It was foggy and grey and the hunting hounds were out.

"Whoever catches the small green dragon, the one with love in his eyes, will be rewarded." The princess proclaimed to the hunting party. "I will give them all that they ever desire. I will acknowledge them as the  mighty hunter, the dragon-slayer, that they most want to be. But the dragon must not know what you are doing, or it will consume you in its fiery wrath."

The hunters set out, and one, a sharp-faced skinny thing with overlarge eyes, drew her bow against herself.She was small, and a little scared, because she didn't have any concept of killing. She was a healer. She liked to make things feel better, by her hands, and she was good at it. Cuts and bruises, broken hearts and sadness, all fell to the forest floor with her, the huntress and healer. I don't know why she wanted to find the dragon. Maybe she could feel his sadness.

She shut her eyes and let the forest spin around her like the world in orbit. She knew she could find the dragon, because the huntress was named Pity, and Pity always finds those who are in love.

She felt hot breath against her and opened her eyes, and there he stood, the weepy-eyed green dragon. Somehow, she was not surprised. "Good evening."

"They're looking for me, aren't they?" said the small dragon. "The hunters?"

The thin huntress nodded.

"If they knew what it was to love, they'd know where to find me." he said mournfully. He turned his great sad eyes from the mountains to the girl. "I never wanted to run from the princess. You must understand love, to find me. What is your name?"

Love is a great thing to understand. She blushed. "I'm called Pity. I'm a huntress and a healer."

"Pity. That is a good name." The dragon says, infinite sadness and infinite wisdom coloring his voice. "Are you going to take me to see her at last? That's what you're here for."

Pity had not realized how hard this would be. He was a fool. The princess would kill him, and he couldn't even see it, because he loved her. One thing she knew - this poor fool was the sweetest of monster, and maybe she did understand love, because I think she loved the poor dragon. "I have to tell you something."

"I will listen."

Of course, she can't just say the princess means to kill him in her selfish want of love. She closed her eyes and listened again, hearing his heartbeat. "Why do you love her?" She puts her healing hands against his chest, feeling sadness seeping into her fingers.

"Can the bee explain why it makes its honey sweet? Does the mountain know why it shadows the towns below? Can a huntress tell away her knowledge of the bow?" He shook his head. "You and I are alike, Pity. You know love too, and you don't understand it, same as me. That's why I trusted you, Pity. That's why I let you see me, why we found each other. Because we're both starving because we don't know what we know. We have both given everything, too, haven't we?"

No one had ever talked to Pity like this before. "Are you saying that my listening is giving?"

A great, steaming dragon tear fell to the ground. "It is also taking. You are pulled, little Pity. And you do not understand the things you know."

"Dragon!" She turns to him with concern in her forehead. "You are bleeding!"

"You have cut me, Pity. Your hands are the hands of a huntress." The dragon says weakly.

"No! No, I never meant to hurt you!" She presses her hands to the hole in his chest. The blood falls through her fingers, and the wound begins to close.

"Take your hand away. Your healing can not truly heal. You only want the pain to stop, I know your kind well, Pity, but it will only hurt it all more." He gasps and pushes her hand away. His heart falls free from his chest.

"No! No, I never meant to hurt you! All I wanted to do was make you feel better!" Tears are pouring from her, and join his blood.

"It's all right, Pity. I wanted this. And better to be killed by a small girl named Pity than a giant called Regret." He turned to her, weakly. "You do not understand the things you know, not at all. You are no healer."

Tears poured from all of her. "I know. I know. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

He put his talon against her back. "No, don't feel bad, my dear little Pity. That's not why I told you that. Just know this - sometimes what a dragon needs is to be cut, and not to be made whole. You will learn, little one, how to do both, and how to know what you do is right." Tears leak from his eyes. "I trust you, Pity. Do you trust me?"

"Yes." she whispers. "Yes, I do, Dragon."

"My name is not Dragon; it is Love. My kind will teach you well one day. But now, little one, I am trusting you with this, my heart, my most precious gift. Would you give it to the princess for me?"

"Why do you love the Princess? She does not love you. She wanted you to be hunted."

"It doesn't matter. I would that she would have just asked me for my heart, for I would have willingly given it to her. But now, she will be healed." he sighed. "And you will be well-renowned as a dragon-slayer."

"No, I will not." Pity said resolutely. "I will be renowned as the small girl who found a dead dragon and cried at his body, and whose tears made the flowers grow."

The dragon regarded her and his talon fell away from her back. "Then you are wise, and you are learning already." He shut his eyes. "One favor, if I may, Pity?"

She leaned forward. "Anything."

"Heal my eyes. I have been blind a long time."

She pressed her hands to his eyes and her tears made him see. He sighed, and the flowers began to bloom. "So, that is what your eyes look like." And he breathed his last.

And little Pity, leaving her bow in the forest, took his heart to the princess and she was healed. I don't think she ever knew how Pity had slain a dragon called Love by accident to heal her, and I don't think she was ever thought of by that selfish princess again, but Pity knew. She never forgot him, the dragon Love,  and I think that she did learn how to heal and how to kill by her hands. But she mostly went every spring to the place where they had made the flowers grow, to remember how to see.

The Urchin

The travelling man came across an urchin in the street. She was dirty and her fingernails were clenched and bloodied against her breast. One hand was pressed to the pavement and the other was pressed against her breast. Hollow-eyed, she glanced up at the man and waved with one hand still against her. Her shawl falls away from her dirty eyes and she stares. He waves back and travels on. He is a travelling man, it's what he does. She's just a little urchin girl, and as he whisps on, an empty chewing-gum wrapper falls from his pocket. She picks it up and calls in a softly lisping voice, "Thank you, sir. I'll hold this piece of kindness in my pocket and one day when I have something to give, I'll be kind to you too." He doesn't turn around, but hopes that she'll grow up to be not such a dirty girl as she is now.

Decades later, when the moon is king and the sun is dark, the travelling man returns and as he walks, he sees the urchin girl - thinner, colder, and brittle as a snowflake. She is not an urchin anymore, but a seller of secrets, a lie-seller. 

"Are you a buyer of things I know?" she said softly in the street, her hand clenched against herself. 

The white-lipped man with the pocketwatch stops. "Are you a seller of good things?"

"I sell the things I know, sir. But we will barter in things we know: I will hold whatever secret you put into me and then I will tell you something happy. You may buy the things I know."

So he whispered a bitter secret into her ear, and she took her hand off of her breast, and pulled, to the travelling man's surprise, her hand away holding her heart, beating and hollow as a drinking gourd. She put the pale secret into the hollow vase of her heart, solemnly. Then she pressed it back into her chest. She shuddered and grew a little paler. "Thank you. I'll hold it unless you want it back." She said it sort of like a question.

"No. I do not miss it." 

"Then let me tell you a secret, in exchange for what you sold me." She looked up into the heavens, and whispered something in his ear. His face lifted and he smiled. His lips took some color and he put his pocketwatch away. Then he walked away.

She smiled thinly and sat back down. Whatever he said had made her sad, and whatever she had said had made him happy.  

The travelling man was curious. And so he walked to her. "Are you a buyer of things I know?" she said. 

His eyes shot from her dark hollow eyes to her hand clenched against her. "What do you sell? Lies or the truth?"

Her eyes flickered. "I don't know the difference. I sell the things in my heart. I have many things that my heart knows. And I sell the ones that make you happy. I'd make you happy, sir, if you'd exchange me something in your heart."

"Why?"

"My heart falls out a lot, and it has a hollow in it. It's shaped like a secret. So I thought I should do it that way. That part I know is true."

He stretched out his hand and dropped a beam of light, purer than any secret into her hands.

"I can't keep this, sir." she said, her lips quivering. "I've never had anything this beautiful. I'm not that kind of girl, sir."

"Keep it." he said softly. Curious, he said," Now, tell me one of the things you sell people."

After a moment's hesitation, she rose to her tiptoes and whispered in his ear. His eyes intuitively brightened. "But that is true." he said happily. "The things you say are true."

She looked relieved, and tired. "I'm learning now what true is, sir. But that's not what I say, sir. I'm saying things that are happy."

He looked her in the eye. "Now tell me one of the things still in your heart. One of the sad ones."

She shook her head. "No, they are mine to hold. I'm the one with the hole in my heart, and I'm the only one who has to do this. I wouldn't wish this on you."

"But they're lies." he said. 

She turned her head in a somewhat shamed way and walked.

The travelling man saw her again the next day, sitting on the ground. The first thing he noticed was that her hand was out in front of her face, outstretched, and not clenched against her.

In her hand, her heart was bleeding all over, and the smile he was accustomed to seeing on the lie-seller's face was gone. "It wouldn't go back in today." She said blankly. "I couldn't get it back once I put a secret in it." She winced.

"Does it hurt?"

She winced. "I can't tell if this is truth or a lie. And I know I'll die if I get it wrong." She glanced back to her heart in her hands.

"I will show you the truth." Said the travelling man. And he put his hand on her heart and held it for her as she coughed. Secrets and lies and sadness and blood poured out of it and she coughed and cried. "No, no!" she said. "I promised I would hold those."

But they continued to pour until one last thing was stuck in there as she gasped.

It was a chewing gum wrapper.

"I made a promise once," she said to the travelling man, all out of breath. "to be kind to you."

Then she crushed her heart into her hands and said, "I can not hurt you any more. Neither can I lie to anyone again." 

And the urchin exhaled.

I fall in love with a bird and live

Once upon a time, there was a little worm-girl. She lived in the quietest part of a garden, under hte shade of a wild-haired tulip.

There was not one thing special about this worm. She was not important, she was not talented, she was not (certainly not!) pretty. The easiest way to describe her is a Nobody among Nobodies.

The grown-up worms knew her to be a simple-hearted little thing with no big aspirations and no big exceptional traits, but a big heart - big for a worm, that is. The boy worms were blinded by her blindness and usually mistook her for a ladybug. Ladybugs are good at listening, but are usually too prim and proper to be friends.

Maybe they were right. She was a very blind worm, and not very important at all. Either way, she listened a lot, and she loved to listen. But she still couldn't see and maybe that was her biggest fault.

One day, she was squalling about in the shade of the garden. It was so bright and hot and her skin hurt. She, in her ungainly worm fashion, squinted her forehead where her eyes would  have been and squirmed uncomfortably away. She thought about the sun and the other worms and the tulips and suddenly wished she weren't blind even though she'd know how ugly she was.

"Hello, girl."

She froze. She knew that voice. It was a bird, one of the bright winged creatures who are as full of light as they are of air and beauty. They also eat worms. "Hello, bird." She said. She flails side to side, trying to face him as best as one can with no face.

"Don't trouble yourself," he said softly. He hopped around to face her. "Are you alright, girl?"

She can't remember the last time she was alright.And she knew birds. They tried to be kind, but they're so beautiful, so undeniably better, that they end up devouring poor worms like her. "What do you want from me?" She said.

He waits a long time to answer. When he does, his voice is soft as warm poppy petals. "Just... just to love you." he says quietly. "To be friends. You've always been kind."

Not to wild birds. "Thanks, but not really. I'm not kind." she says, worming her tail awkwardly backward.

"Yes, you are. You've always listened and cared and asked and been kind to me. I-" he hesitates. "Don't you remember how kind you are to me?"

"I do not know you." What a sorry thing to say. "I'm sorry, but I don't."

"That's okay." he says, and he's not quite disappointed. "I think we are friends."

"Okay."

"I think," he hesitates again. "I think I, maybe, love you." It sounds like a question.

She didn't answer, because birds can't really love worms, not really. They may care, they may be merciful or even kind, possibly sweet, but never ever can they really love worms. Where would they live?

She wishes she could have seen how he looked when he said it though.

He did keep coming back, the bird boy, every day. They did nothing together. She couldn't really fly with him, and there was nothing that she would like him to see about her home. So they lazed. They listened. They sat. They talked. They were together.

"Tell me about seeing," She said. They're sitting in the sunshine. Her tail is would around his talons.

"It's amazing." His breath and his wings are against her back. She sighs, because it's good to be together and alive together. "The world is very bright." he continues.

"Okay."

"I see things as they seem, I think. It's not like what you do, dear."

"Okay."

He stirs a little. "I love you."

Before she can talk herself out of the glimpse of light she just had, she says, "I love you too."

Oh no! She is blind. She is a blind ugly worm. She can not love him. He can not love her, but even less can she love him. "No! No, I can not love you." She gulps down a pocket of tears. "I am a worm and you are a bird."

"You don't understand. Love isn't like that."

"A bird can not love a worm, my dear. Where would they live?" She says, and the world is very very dark again.

A blink of light. "We are each other. Not a bird, nor a worm. We are who we are."

A blink of tears. "No, you can't do that. Don't become a worm for me."

His wings move. "I've always been a worm. It was you who first called me a bird."

All of a sudden, she remembers who he is and why he knew they were friends. But she knew him, once a long time ago, not as the bird that he is, but as one of the other wailing worms. She had listened to him.

"But I feel your wings." She says, stubbornly. "You are more than you think you are. How could you be a worm?"

He smiles. "Sometimes love goes by many names. Sometimes, its best name is blindness."

Love is neither sight nor blindness.

"No." She says. "Love's name is not blindness. Love is what is real, it is a realization. You are a bird. My blindness gave love realization."

"Do you not feel your wings?" he says softly. "My sight will realize your reality, too."

She is not a worm. He is not a bird. They are real and the in between of wings and worms is where they live.

White Bird

White Bird

Once upon a time, there was a little bird. All of white, she dressed herself in the morning and the songs of half-forgotten cemeteries, all crying out. She was a very young little bird, her downy feathers not quite finding flight. That didn’t stop her from believing that the sky could not contain her joy.

“I only know that when you play with Thelma, you always get the worst of it. That is why I say, be careful.” said Mother.

The little white bird flew along the lines of the trees. She crossed them like barbed wire and landed among the wild yellow lilies. Each one grasped at her with their feline paws and, among them, she knew she had a home. But the joy of the sky was still uncontainable, and something inside of her cried out that there had to be more than this. The lilies wiped their mouths with their sleeves and turned to devour another bite of her tail.

And Max, the king of all wild things, was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all.
And from all across the world, Max smelled good things to eat, and so he gave up being king of where the wild things are. But the wild things cried, “Oh, please don’t go! We’ll eat you up! We love you so!”
But Max said, “No.” And he climbed aboard his private boat…

White birds
are
harder to
chew
than
wolves are

You are not a hen. You are not a kitten. You are not a cow. You are not a car, or a plane, or a Snort. You are a bird, and you are my mother.

The white bird couldn’t escape the gnawing grip of the tiger lilies. Her wings, now clipped by their maws, were tainted red by their bloodstained teeth. Her tail was caught among the green leaves. No one could see her any longer. But reality set in and the traps were broken. The sunrise gobbled up the night and she didn’t want to leave the warm embrace of the bloodied flowers…

Once upon a time, there was a princess –
“Was the princess you?
- and she fell in love –
“Was it hard to do?”
- it was very easy!
“Was he strong and handsome?
“Was he big and tall?”
There’s no one like him, anywhere at all…

iloveyou
crytheweeds
iloveyou
crythebluebonnets
iloveyou
criesthesun
iloveyou
crythetigerlilies

“I know who you are,” the man said, “for I made you. I built the tower and set it in motion. I planted the meadow, put fish in the ocean. I’ve seen you fall down in the mud and the goo. I’ve seen all you’ve done and all you will do. Here’s what you look like. Here’s how I see you. Put this in your pack and you’ll find it will free you from all of the pictures and all of the lies that others make up just to cut down your size.”

Suffocated by the words of the flowers and the desire of the skies, the white bird died…

And Max sailed back through a day, and in and out of weeks, and almost over a year to his very own room, where he found his supper waiting for him

And it was still hot.

Wings fly on.
Beating in her chest.
Maybe it’s her muscles straining to fly.
Maybe her heartbeat.
Only wild things love me,
She sings.
Until the sun
Eats her up
In his enthusiasm to see her
And the joy of the sky
Embraces a
White hand.

{Featuring selections from
A Bargain for Frances, by Russel Hoban
Where the Wild Things Are, by Maurice Sendak
Are You My Mother?, by P.D. Eastman
The Disney classic, Snow White
A Snoodle’s Tale, by Phil Vischer
Original piece, “White Bird” by Catey Yuen}

Monologue

Hello. Does that seem stiff and formal? It kind of feels that way. Okay. Hi, it's me. I just dropped by because, well, I'm not sure. I miss you a lot. That's for sure. A whole lot. It seems like it's been years since we stayed up till three to talk about the sunset. Was that really just last week? Wow. So much has happened since then. The world has ended since then. Or, my world has.

How many years has it been since we first met? Five? Six? I don't even remember. It seems like forever. You were so young, with your nerdy little bowl cut and your cute little smile. I was probably just as young. Is that me? In that picture beside the bed? Wow. Look at me. I'm not who I was.

Remember that time when we made the blanket fort in your basement with all of the fitted sheets? We slew the dragon, plugged in the stereo, and rocked out to Mozart for three hours during the thunderstorm. Your eyes glowed like you were a nocturnal creature and your Figaro aria was spot-on. Quite the singer, you still are.

How about that time when you and I went out dancing in the rain? I felt like a princess, twirling around in my satin dress, rain making my eyelashes stand out more than any makeup. You doubted the sense of dancing in the rain at first, but with you bow tie strapped around your neck, you made a dapper Gene Kelly, singin' in the rain. I don't think either of us knew what we were doing. I know I didn't. And you looked so uncomfortable. But you were a trooper. We spun in circles and pretzels, and then you dropped me. It didn't hurt, and I'm pretty sure you did it on purpose, just to show off how you would always be there to keep me safe.

My favorite memories are still the ones from those late nights, right before... well, you know. It felt like the morning would never get here, and that God had stopped the moon right as we knew we would never be able to go to sleep. I talked about the past a lot. Rome. China. Transcendentalism. Purity. The way things used to be. You renewed my mind. We talked about the future. The way things will be, if all turns out. College. Work. Church. Missions. You. Me. And both of us. And God, of course. Lots about God.

But now, your words are silent, and your beautiful velvet eyes are shut. The future is past. All of our plans, the times that you were going to take me dancing, the times I was going to help you clean your room, the times we were going to stay up all night praying in the church cafe... all of those are gone. I watch them dissolve into the IV plugged into your arm. Your raspy breathing is almost like singing, melodic, like those blues songs we sang to your guitar in the lazy practices.

Oh, my sweet friend! I miss you!

Give me your hands. They've gone cold.

Don't leave me.

All those plans we had, all those things we never got to talk about, all those things I still wanted to tell you...

The future is now.

Wake up.

I love you.

And even longer

When I left my glass slipper there on the step, I did not expect you to pick it up. I was running at a hundred thousand miles an hour, knowing I did not belong there. I don't know what I expected would happen to my shoe. I supposed I would have left it there in that land of polished lights and glowing wineglasses. It fit in there.

I did not expect you.

I did not expect the bloodstains on the heels from where your hands were bleeding from saving me from that roaring dragon at the ball. I did not expect your crown to be made of brambles. Princes are princes, true is true, but what prince has no gold upon him but his golden eyes?

You saw me.

They (not you) have all forgotten the captive monster who posed as the princess. The tinkling goblets never stop their music-box-melody from within, but I feel the horns sprouting from my forehead and the hunching of my back - I am no princess! - Oh, why did I ever pretend? Now I know too much...

The rain falls on my face and the laughter turns to thunder. I trip on my one-shoe and feel my dress soak full of mud. Your crown is beside me, and my glass slipper.

Have you really loved me all this time?

He says, And even longer.

{True love at first sight}

Paradox: on Maundy Thursday

Then came the Day of the Unleavened Bread, on which the Passover lamb had to be sacrificed...

Afraid, I walked
In gloomy streets
God, O God, pass over me...So Jesus sent Peter and John, saying, "Go and prepare the Passover for us, that we may eat it."

We walk together
He and I, we saw
On every corner, a face
Ah, how we should have known it
For it was the face of him

They said to him, "Where will you have us prepare it?"

Sadness
Glory
On his brow
Where is a place for this man?
I can not find him

He said to them, "Behold, when you have entered the city, a man carrying a jar of water will meet you. Follow him into the house that he enters,"

Water, I thirst
Why can not this void within be quenched?
I will follow you
Where are you?
Where are you taking me?"And tell the master of the house, 'The Teacher says to you, Where is the guest room, where I may eat the Passover with my disciples?'

In the corner of the room,
There is a vase
-We are all fearful -
In it, still, still his face
Why do I not recognize it?

And he said to them, "I have earnestly desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer."

Everywhere, I see guilt
And faces
Faces, I see them, I am
Afraid, I do not know who this is
I earnestly desire to be in your kingdom, Teacher
I would not be afraid there

And he took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying,^"> "This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me."

Broken, like my heart
I do not see anything but this unknown face
Who are you?
I remember, Lord, but
Why, why indeed, would I need to?

And he came out and went, as was his custom, to the Mount of Olives, and the disciples followed him.

I see more clearly here in the dark
Here you are!
I see the face and I know you.
And here you come to leave us all
Paradox
I don't understand, but tomorrow
Tomorrow, I will see
Tomorrow I will understand
Now I know in part
Perhaps I will understand as I am understood
What a sad, sad story
To see your face in prayer
Here among the Olive Trees
You are, I recognize, your face
In paradox

The Princess

Once upon a time, there was a princess. She lived in a castle far away by the sea, where dragons used to dwell. One day, the princess threw a pebble from her castle window down into the green-blue sea below. "Oh dear!" cried the princess, as ripples deeper than the waves spread in perfect rings from her pebble. "My treasure is lost forever." You see, quite by accident, the princess had cast this pebble which contained the greatest of her treasures into a sea which she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt would tear it apart and leave it empty and hollow. So the princess dove into the sea, and felt in the waters around her the whisper and shout of a thousand hurtful words, all screaming:
"My heart is torn! There is a hole in my heart!"
The princess cried out and held out her hands, and there was darkness in the palm of her hand. She covered her ears, but there was still much screaming rushing in her ears. She shut her eyes, and yet there was still the sight of tears falling from a drooping seaweed. She was afraid, so she rushed up to the surface, screaming:
"My treasure is not worth the pain!"
Just as she reached the sunlight of the world above, she heard the sound of wings on water, of poetry, of an angel's kiss. "Thank you."
Again, "Thank you."
"Thank you.... thank... you....."
"For what?" The princess said. "Who are you?"
"We are the crying ones beneath the water. You left us a gift. We thank you... thank you..."
"What gift? I left you no gift!""The pebble. You gave us a pebble which encased a grain of truth. The truth has melted away the mud which bound us to the sea floor. Do you see what happened to us now?"
The princess looked around. "I do not see you."
"We are no longer the waves of the ocean, tossed by the foul wind. We are creatures of the air now. Your gift is freeing us. We thank you... thank..."
Their voices faded off into the sound of the wind over the water.
The princess looked into the sea. Her treasure meant so much to her... to give it up would spell doom, wouldn't it?
She had let her treasure go, but had it really left her?

That's what I'm thinking about : )

The Night

And God said, "Let there be light," and there was light. And God saw that the light was good. And God separated the light from the darkness. God called the light Day, and the darkness, he called Night.

It was now about the sixth hour and there was darkness over the whole land until the ninth hour, while the sun's light failed. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two.

For at one time you were darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Walk as children of light.

I, Jesus... am the root and the descendant of David, the bright morning star. The Spirit and the Bride say, "Come." And let the one who is thirsty come; let the one who desires take the water of life without price.

It is so dark out here, Father. It's so cold, and chill, and I am frightened. The stars even hide their light. I cannot break this blackness, this perfect, pure blackness.

Father, I am afraid.

Why is the night here? Is it not daytime? Why, Father?

These torrents of rain cover me. They are in my hair and my eyes, and the scream - the pained, pained scream - fills my ears and my heart. Who is crying out, Father? And why is he anguished?

Then the wailing begins. I cannot tell where it begins from. Perhaps the man in the center of the three? The wail is unbroken, unadulterated pain. The man arches his back, trying, trying so hard to...

To breathe, I think. Below him, the woman is wailing too. Their screams harmonize together in cacophony with the screaming. I think it is the wind.

I am afraid, Father.

Above the shout of rain and wind and tears, I can hear just one thing.

Small gasp. Small gasp.

The man in the center is making the noise. He tears his hands on the spires and raises himself up.

"Father! Into your hands I commit my spirit. It is finished."

It is.

The wind is louder. The rain pounds harder on my face, my outstretched hands.

I'm crying. And I don't know why.

It is finished.

That is why. It's done here. The suffering, finally over. The pain, finally done.

But his life is ended. Cut short.

The darkness plunges even blacker. And then I realize.

Light has perished from the world.

Come back.

Come back.

End the night, forever.

Part V of the Purple Mold Series

A story of life, love, desperation and mold of a rather unusual color by Kylie and I. (click the names below for links to the previous parts of the story)
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four

The wailing wouldn't stop.

It was Iyanna's wailing and she couldn't control it any more than she could control the destiny that had seized her and her unwilling family. It had been only a day since the violet mold had appeared in the outhouse. A day since disaster had come to be.

"Yan," a voice said softly by her ear. "It's time to wake up." A masculine voice. Hmmm. There was something significant about this voice, wasn't there? If her tired, frozen mind could only melt a little, maybe she could remember...

She swallowed and opened her eyes. A man knelt next to her bed. Two piercing grey eyes shone out of the still of the dawn room. She clamped her mouth shut to keep the scream from escaping.

Who was this man and how had he got into her room? She looked frantically around for Westin, but his bedclothes were rumpled, signaling the fact that he had indeed left.

"Calm down, little sister." The man said, releasing her from the burden of his silvery eye contact. "I promise, I'm here to help you."

"Who are you?" She said, her voice painfully level.

"I'm called Arioch." He extended a hand. She looked at it, unsure of what he meant.

He pulled his hand back again. "Oh, sorry about that. Custom I've grown familiar with. I assume you are Iyanna?"

She narrowed her eyes. How did he know so much about her? "Yes. How do you know that?"

He smiled. A brilliant, silvery smile to be sure. The light of the stars was captured in his shimmering smile. "Do you like to fly?"

Fly? This man, Arioch as he called himself, was a lunatic. "What kind of question is that?" she snapped at him.

"A perfectly valid one." He said, looking down at his long, pale fingers. "Well, do you?"

"Like to fly?"

"Mm-hmm."

"I've never flown before." Lunatic. Stark, raving mad.

"Oh. That's a shame." He smiled again, and she couldn't tell whether he was joking or serious. "Do you want to fly?"

"No." The answer came to her lips without her thinking about it. Her heart started to increase its beats in speed. The crazy man was making her nervous.

"Again, a shame. Do you like sunsets?"

"Yes." she said cautiously.

"Good! Now we're beginning to understand each other!" He slapped a hand onto her shoulder.


Understand each other? Iyanna's mind raced. Understand? Nothing could be further from the truth!

Arioch must have interpreted the look on her face accurately, because he said, "Don't worry, little sister. You will understand much later. Tell me, what do you know about stars?"

She glared at him from under her eyelids.

He just smiled his roguish grin back at her. "That's fine. I just want to get to know you a little more."

"Then maybe you could actually ask me something that mattered!"

"What do you suggest?"

Iyanna stopped. What was important? "You could ask me about the violet mold."

"So, why has the Creator bestowed this violet mold upon you, sweet Iyanna?" Arioch leaned back on his elbows, stretching his long frame.

"I don't know."

"Then why did you tell me to ask that?" Arioch quirked one side of his mouth up.

"Maybe you have... answers." Iyanna's tongue was running away with her mind. What was she thinking?

"Hmm." Arioch sat back up. "Answers. I have no answers. Never. But the Creator holds knowledge in the palm of his hand. Inquire of him. Who knows? He may choose to speak through his humble servant."

It took Iyanna a moment to realize he was referring to himself. "No." She chewed her lower lip, bitter. "If the Creator would deprive me of my life, my safety, my brother, he's not worth it all, is he?"

Arioch looked serious. "Your brother? What about your brother?"

"The mold was his, wasn't it?"

"You seem to think I know things that I don't know. But if this is really something that disturbs you, then I need you to do something ridiculous."

Everything you've said so far has been ridiculous.

"Hold very tightly to my hand, and don't let go." He said, extending his hand in her direction. "Promise me, whatever happens, you won't let go."

Iyanna slipped her hand into his, her concern for Westin outweighing all reason. "I won't... let go."

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Arioch was gone. She was gone. Nothing.

Nothing.

The light had faded into nothing. Nothing.

She tried to move, but found that her clenched hand still bound her to where she was.

The darkness glimmered into hazy brilliance. What a strange dream. The world was back. She must have hit her head on the low ceiling or something. A bird was singing.

"Yan?"

Iyanna would know that voice anywhere. "Westin!" She leaped from the ground, which she now recognized as moss, and ran toward him. His face was pale, but he looked happy. Happier than he had been in a long time.

She couldn't reach him. Her hand bound her in place.

Whatever happens, don't let go. Arioch's words echoed across the familiarity of it all. Promise me, whatever happens, don't let go.

Iyanna let go. The nightmarish darkness, nothingness was here.

She had forgotten, in the lovely morning and her brother's warm face, the terror of this. She screamed, but the scream was torn from her throat in a desperate force.

"Sweetie, wake up." The voice sounded like it was coming through a tunnel of wind.

"Katia! Bring her around!"

"She's having a seizure, sir! I can't do... anything." The voices were fading and growing, hitting grandiose notes of crescendo and decrescendo.

Then the roar overwhelmed them, and Iyanna was alone, away from Arioch, whose hand had fallen from hers.

And far, far away from sweet Westin.

So... did you see that coming? Check back on Kylie's site in the near future for Part VI.

Check it out...

I'm up on the Patrick Henry College site with my winning story today! If you'd like to read it, visit: http://patrickhenrycollege.com/acalltopens.php
Just click my name.


I also would like to continue on my wonderful Aunty's site and write a haiku (or maybe two or three... I tend to get carried away. Haiku is my second favorite poem, second to the depressing freestyles I write...)



White splash in sunlight

Darkness fleeing sunshine bright

Brilliance of morning.



Tree dances in wind

Mischievious giggles of breeze

Lovely soul of spring.

Part III of the Purple Mold Series (this one's too long to be a trilogy)

The darkness was complete. Iyanna sat alone in its company, hugging her knees to her chest and crying silently, her face contorted into a mask of pain.

"I don't believe in superstitions. This is all an old wives' tale and-" she stopped. "And... and I..." She faltered miserably off into the depths of the cold darkness.

She felt around in the inky black, groping for a candle to light, to break the remorselessness of the night. She looked with her fingers, but her hands shook so badly she couldn't concentrate on anything but her unreasonable panic.

"God," she screamed, though the scream was unheard, "Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God... If there is a God, save us now. God, save our lives. If you're real, if you're there, if you really do care about what happens to people, you've got to save us. Please-" Iyanna screamed suddenly. A wave of searing heat blasted her from just ahead. It was so hot, she felt it singe off her eyebrows and eyelashes.

Then everything was as it had been. Had she imagined that? She ran a finger along her forehead. Her eyebrows were gone. No imagining there.

"Hello?" she called, a hesitation catching her voice. No sound came out. She tried again. Still nothing. This time, she screamed it and put her hand in front of her mouth. Her breath was there, but no sound. She could feel her voice rumbling in her throat, but no noise.

The shaking grew to uncontrolable. She felt around in the darkness, but nothing was there. Not her bed, her nightstand, the waxy old candle that she had set there with a match, no window, walls... even the floor felt somehow different.

What happened? Where am I?

That's when it occurred to her. She was nowhere. Not nowhere as in, far away from people, but simply Nowhere, a place that wasn't. That meant she might be not too. It would definitely follow. But why would a person be not in Nowhere? Was she dead?

The mold. I am dead. I died. I died! I'm dead! Oh no, I'm dead!

She clasped her hands to her face, afraid, but realized that since she was not, she had no hands to clasp, no face to touch. She wasn't. Simple as that.

She realized that her heart wasn't pounding, that she wasn't blinking, that the reason her voice made no sound was because she had no voice and that in a place Nowhere, no voice could be heard.

She wasn't sure whether to be reassured or terrified.

Something stabbed her arm. She had felt that. What did that mean? Was she really not? How could someone who wasn't feel something that was? That didn't make any sense.

Her feet felt cold, cold and numb. She was coming back.

"She's coming to," a soft-spoke male voice said. Where were these people coming from? The world was still pitch black.

"Can you hear me?" The same voice said.

"I- yes." Iyanna said, her voice crackling.

"Can you open your eyes, sweetheart?" A female voice this time, farther away than the man.

Iyanna opened them, but it was still dark. "I can't see."

"Are you getting that down, Katia?" The man said. "My guess, ma'am, is that the vision loss is due to your illness. You suffered some major nerve damage."

Iyanna's head swam. Nerve damage? What was nerve damage? And she hadn't been sick. She'd been dead, but not sick. "Will I be able to see again?"

A shuffling noise. "I'm sorry; I don't know. Can I have your name, ma'am?"

"Iyanna." Iyanna's head was pounding now.

"How do you spell that?" Katia said.

She tried to say, "I don't know," but felt herself going weak, slipping from this real world back into a kind of Nowhere all over again... caught in a current beyond her control... falling into black...



Author's note: Bet ya didn't expect that! Anyway, Kylie may write the next part at http://www.reflections412.wordpress.com/, or I'll continue directly from my site. Either way, this is not the end, nor is it the last you've heard of my really strange storywriting skills. Check back soon! Sparks of illumination, C.