Eventuality

I bumped into the memory man

the other day—

(we’ve been crossing paths often

lately)—

I listened to small things

which gave me small reactions.

But when he arched his eyebrows

as if asking, was I ready?

I left the memory man

where I found him and

conveniently forgot where

that place happened to be.

The only thing is that

he knows how to find me

he finds me every day

and every day he asks the question

and every day I say, “No thanks.”

One of these days, I guess.

It will be one of these days.

Another Place, Another Time

*The original photo is of an FA Cup Final Tie programme from 1947

Sometimes in her dreams she could hear the King talking to her...but, of course, Kitty never saw his face.  Nor could she recall what the apartment looked like that had been her home during her long stay in the Interior.  The much-faded scar where the Minister’s knife had gone into her side failed to jog her memory.  Even when Kitty went to visit the Minister’s grave, she found no marker, presumably because no one had known who he was.  Its absence only heightened her sense of unreality.  Not for the first time did she wish Jack could remember his trip there, if only  to validate her experience.  But she seemed fated to just forget more and more about the Interior until, somehow, it would cease to exist in her memory at all.

Acceptance

This is not how I meant it to be

this is not who I meant to become

these are not the memories I

expected to replay in 

my head 

as I remembered who

I once had 

been

Reckoning

When I opened the cage and released the girl, she howled past me, a cyclone powered by atomic pain.  I crouched against the wall and covered my ears but I could still hear her screams, the terrified shouts of those in the lost restaurant, as she raged deadly witness against them.

War

Welcome back

I am not back

do not speak to me

Tell me a story

There is no story

only tears that blur

the words

Tell me a story where

no one wins

I lost victory long ago

lost its taste, its smell

I lost the smoke and

the screams and

the burning

I lost the cool taste of

water on a hot day

I lost the quarry and the

lake

I lost what I believed myself

to be

I lost daydreams and goodbyes

and hellos and new chances

I lost imagination

You are not lost

Stop talking to me

I forgot the riddle long ago

You forgot nothing

I will cross out words

I will make believe

I will stop everything

You know me

I was something I liked,

once

I think

I don’t know

I don’t know a damn thing

anymore

the fire has gone out and

I am cold

I am so fucking cold

Lost Girl

Stretch me across your rack, my love

turn tight the wheels

I will not cry

I will not cry 

because this I should have known

that the moment I found the 

heart to bring you here

I would be so much more alone.

Gone

You found my horses running bare

shivering in the wind with

frozen hair

it broke to the touch 

as you whispered goodbye goodbye

goodbye...

Armageddon

“All right,” Philippe said, in a steady voice, “go ahead then.”  He pulled his knife out from his boot.  “I am ready.”

“What do you mean, you’re ready?” Kitty demanded.   

Philippe gave her a grim smile.  “You know what I mean. If you die, so do I.”

“You don’t mean that!”

“Oh, yes, I do.  I have lost you over and over again, but I have survived it because hope, however small, always remained.  But if you die, hope dies with you.  That I cannot survive.  I know this now, so why delay the inevitable?”

“Philippe!” Kitty yelped.  “That’s not fair!”

“How is it not fair?  It is exactly what you mean to do to me, is it not?”

Kitty felt a flash of anger rise up in her. And then she thought of Jack, and the anger died again. What difference did any of it make anymore? “I don’t care,” she whimpered. “Just please go away and let me die.”

“I am afraid that is impossible now. My fate is tied to yours.”

“I don’t believe in soul mates or in this stupid guardian intuit thing!”

“Then prove it,” Philippe said. When Kitty just stared at him, not comprehending, he told her, “If you truly believe I will plunge this knife into my heart, you will not be able to pull that trigger. Your subconscious will not allow it.”

“Oh, for god’s sake, I’m sick of this nonsense,” she said bitterly.  Her finger rested on the trigger.  

In response Philippe moved the knife so that the point touched his stomach.

Another sob rose up in Kitty’s throat, as she shouted at him, “Stop pretending!  You don’t want to die!”

“No, I do not.  But I am more afraid of a world without you than I am of death.”

“Even if I hate you?”

“Even if.”

An eternity of silence passed.  

“Fine,” Katie said softly.  “Then I’m going back.”

“You know you would not survive the passage—it would be no different than putting a bullet into your head!” Philippe barked, but Kitty answered, “Except that it wouldn’t. You see, Jack gave me some of his blood. I have cells again.”

“There is no proof such a thing would work!” Philippe returned.  “It is far from certain that if you step through the window you would survive!”

“Only one way to find out.” 

When Philippe started to argue again, Kitty told him, “I’m sorry, Philippe.  I do love you—I have for so long now.  I just can’t be in this world for another minute.”

Drowning

I felt your hand on my face and it

was comfort it was

pain.

Shove me out into the water again,

this is my home.

I will find you even though I know

on this dream the night has declared

war.

Daylight

When Bryan stopped, the waitress deposited his refill on the table.  He moved to take it, but I was faster.  Holding the glass out of his reach, I demanded, “What are you trying to do?  Drink yourself to death?”

“What do you care if I am?”

“Oh, that’s fucking great.”

“You don’t need me," Bryan retorted. "You don’t even want to see me.  How I choose to live my life shouldn’t make any difference to you.”

“That doesn’t mean I want you dead!”

“I’m dead to you now, anyway.”

Infuriated, I shot back, “If you are, it’s your own fault.”

“And let me assure you, I’ve beaten myself up for it far better than you ever could.”  He held out his hand.  “So, if you don’t mind, I’d like my fucking drink now.”

“You were the one who didn’t want me around anymore.”

“We all know what I said and did, Rachel.  I can’t keep begging for you to understand.  You’ve made your decision, and I’m sure no one would disagree with it.  Now let me make my own fucking decisions.”

“But all I want is to know why.  You can never tell me why.”

“I did tell you,” Bryan returned, and for the first time I noticed that his outstretched hand was shaking.  “Maybe you don’t understand this,” he said, “but I thought all I had become to you was some kind of fucking obstacle.  I’m sorry if this isn’t a good enough reason for you, or if it sounds trite, but I felt rejected, all right?  Like I meant nothing to the one person who meant everything to me.”  He lowered his eyes, his scowl now fixed on the table.  “I’ve been told I have some kind of abandonment complex because of what happened with my mother—that I don’t want to be left again, so I leave first.  If you can believe that recycled, fucked up psychoanalytical bull shit.”

I could believe it.  And because I did, I forgave him.

*Excerpt from my upcoming novel, The Last Confession of the Sun God.

The last fairy tale

Our hologram 
our invention 

created with the 

worst of intentions 

our illusion

our illusion

Some kind of

cradle

holds you now

I had to let you

fall from my

arms

but not forever

not forever

just in this world...

Memory

Sometimes I am lost,

wandering around my

mind.

And the madness that

touches me,

touches you,

too.

It beats me inside,

it makes me swallow

what I should

release—

it beats me inside,

I have to swallow

or I will

choke.

It follows me,

but it can run so

much faster.

It can run so much

faster...

Scissors

The defense has become the obstacle
I cannot give it up
it is giving me up
it is waving goodbye
it has become boring
please please please
it has become boring
I look out of the bus window and I see
houses and a golf course
not ready
keeps rattling at the gate
let me kiss you goodbye

just wait
just wait
just not ready yet.

The defense has become the obstacle
there is no turning back.

Irreversible

Kitty was in the process of creating a make-shift bandage in front of the sink when she realized she was no longer alone.  And yet no one had come through the door. This could mean only one thing.  Hoping to see a friendly fuzzy image, Kitty raised her eyes to the mirror.

Just behind her stood the image of a blurry clergyman.  As she struggled to maintain her composure Kitty considered casually strolling out of the ladies' room to the relative safety of the bus depot lobby, but her arm was still bleeding all over the counter.  Nor was she a good enough actress to pull off the pantomime that she wasn't alone.   That didn't leave her much of a choice.   

Kitty took a deep breath.  She then turned around and waved at the ghost figure standing only inches away from her.  “Hello,” she said.

“You can see me?” the Minister exclaimed.   

“Of course.”

“So I was right—you were following my friend.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Kitty replied, rapidly deciding that the best course of action was to act as stupid as possible.  It wasn’t as if she wanted to earn the Minister’s respect—she just wanted him to leave her alone, the sooner the better.  And god knew Kitty really had no idea what was going on with this whole Interior business, anyway, so acting stupid wouldn’t be that much of a stretch.  “Following who?” she asked.

“You know precisely who I mean.  How is it that you have come to be involved in this?”

“Involved in what?”

The Minister sighed expressively.  “Where,” he said, “is the file?”

“What file?”

“The one you stole from us.”

Kitty held up her hands.  “I’d love to help you, but as you can see, I don’t have any file.”

“I saw my friend chasing you.”

“What friend?”

“You obviously think I am a fool.”

“I think nothing of the sort.”

“Why are you helping the King?”

“Which king?”

“You are not from the Interior.”

“The Department of Interior?”

            

“Why can you see me?”

“Can’t everyone?” Kitty asked.  “And, hey, what are you doing in the ladies’ room anyway?  You don’t look like a girl.”

For a moment Kitty could have sworn the Minister was going to explode.  But when he instead smiled, Kitty almost wished he hadn’t.  Nothing about that smile felt like a warm fuzzy.  “You must be a queen in your world,” he said.  Kitty shook her head.  “No.  Only a girl.”

“There is nothing ‘only’ about it,” the Minister replied, in such a way that made Kitty’s skin crawl.  “Well, my dear, I would love to chat and learn more about you, but it appears that I must take my leave.  Until we meet again.”

And the image vanished as mysteriously as it appeared.

*From my YA novel A Window to the World, coming soon!

George's Nightmare

The Road to Hell, Redux

Knowing matters.  Why does it matter?  Because it does.  It matters.  But that’s the game—the torture—the double bind.  You will not be allowed to have the one thing that could either give you peace or send you off the cliff of despair, or both.  This one thing will be taken from you.  Instead you will wonder whether you have banana Weetabix poisoning, or if you are right but lost in the red straw network, or if you are sort of right but kind of wrong but full of good intentions, or if you are just a nutter.  You will be told you hold the answers, but there are no answers inside.  Just a howling wind, an incessantly buzzing bee, a mass grave filled with the fallen, the ones who foolishly entered into No Man’s Land armed only with a musket and grim determination.  A musket is no defense against an ICBM.  Grim determination and a dollar will get you a ride on the bus.  Or it would have about twenty years ago.  Now you’d probably need a couple of bucks.

You will be denied all knowledge.  Knowledge will die within you, to be replaced with rotting suspicions and wilting hope.  No seeds can be planted here.  You will be left a slave to ambiguity, a prisoner of doubt.  Enjoy the banana Weetabix, because there is no going back.  And I do like it.  It’s quite nice with yogurt.  Not with milk.  Must never eat cereal with milk.  Never ever ever.

The Other Side

George wants to know what we’re going to talk about.

Well, I don’t know, I tell him. 

I guess about what’s on the other side of the wall.

Okay, he says, what’s on the other side of the wall?

Grass, I answer.  And trees.  Dogs.  Cats.

Birds and cows and children and French fries.

Music, some of it beautiful.  Pictures and art.

Questions about steam and smoke and words that

cannot be pronounced.

All of these things and more.

Hmmmn, he replies, I know about most of

those things. 

I’m not sure what’s in it for me.

You can’t want to be inside of those walls,

I protest.

It must be boring, and so lonely.

Boring, no, he says, because I still have

my mind.

Lonely, sometimes.  But I wasn’t made to

feel much.

I could ask what you were made to do,

I reply.

But I don’t think I want to know.

That’s not a secret, he says.  I was

made to think.

And I do think.  I tell you things,

sometimes, when you’re half-asleep,

or not afraid or interested or

desperate.

I wish you were more interested.

I would tell you more.

I know enough, I answer.

But you don’t, he insists.

You really don’t.  I could tell you

about the oceans and why the

rivers flow and what makes

you not want to wake up.

I could tell you so much.

The boys come, scale the walls.

They whisper things to me,

so that I know why.

Sometimes I escape,

but this is my home.

And the dolls with knives

chase me.  Dolls as

big as you are.

I don’t like them very much.

No, I say, they don’t sound

very nice.

They aren’t, he answers.

They shout things at me from

the other side of the

walls.

“You, boy,” they say,

“you shut up, or we’ll cut

you!”

You wouldn’t think a doll

with blonde hair and

pig tails could be so

vicious.

I’m sorry, George,

I reply.

I didn’t know.  I wish

I could fight them for

you.

They would slash you to

ribbons,

he says.  You, who

can’t shout, who

runs in slow motion,

who can’t dial a

phone, or remember

our mission.

I wish you were interested in

our mission.

I have to stay here until

you set it in

motion.

That isn’t going to

happen, I tell him.

Are you or aren’t you

my friend?

Friend, he repeats,

sounding surprised.  Why

would I be your

friend?  What would the

point be in that?

We have a war to

fight,

and I am your weapon.

The boys are nice enough,

and I could do without

the dolls and their

knives, and sometimes

my thoughts echo.

But there is no love

here.

Look somewhere else

for it.

What if I loved you?

I ask him.

What if I loved how you

think about molecules

racing,

or slowing,

about color,

about owl calls in

the night?

Because I know you

do.

You are no weapon.

You are a boy who listens

to the flow of water in a

stream,

who once had a love affair

with equations.

We could end the war,

rather than start it.

George is quiet for a moment.

Well, he says, you will look

up the difference between

reptiles and amphibians now,

so there might be

something in all of this.

How much we will see.

There are still the dolls to

contend with.