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.