In the moonlight she dances to the pale crimson rhythm that glides and slides in between the shadows. Her eyes slanted, her feet small and delicate, like a child's. She spins and tumbles her way to the river side, till her eyes meet her own.

The moon illuminates the dark glass and her hand dips into the blackness.
"Love", she said. "Show me love".

She waits with baited breath. Knees bent. Crouched down. From a distance she looks like a small animal, waiting to pounce or dive into the deep shallows.
But after a while, she looks more like a large stone by the river side, sturdy and fixed. Down trodden and tired after the anxiousness had worn off.
Patience, she thought.
Eventually the clouds part, and in the reflection of the water she sees the glimmer and faint shine of the stars.
She sees the outline of the trees, and feels the cool grass between her toes.
Patience.
But what is it to wait for love? What is it to dance under the stars, to bathe yourself in moonlight, and then to not know, not recognize the nature of your question.?
Love, show me love.
She closes her eyes then opens them anew. Her answer, found.

Ace of hearts

The wind blown daughters of a century, they called themselves. They used to meet every Tuesday, in tweed and corduroy. Only the sturdy fabrics would do.

My mother would always go to these meetings in knots. And come back unwoven and frayed.

She used to tell us that passion was the thread of the universe.

That was before she came undone.

I write everything on post its now, and wear heavy cotton. A reminder to self to never venture to places between the sensible and the practical.
I stay home on Tuesdays, lock my door, and close the shutters.
But there is no story to this, no murder mystery that needs to be solved.
The simple truth is this, if you are playing to win, you better be sure you have the ace of hearts in your hand. Otherwise, it’s best you stay home.

Veins

I used to love her in the dark hours, when the rest of the world was sleeping. There we were, behind the dorm walls. The candles, burning down and dimly lit. The curves of her face, her gentle smell a mixture of an ocean breeze and soft flowers. Paradise in a concrete jungle and rusted pipes. Paint chips falling. Wax spilling.
Her story, I knew it as soon as I had courage to look into her eyes. It was there, hiding, ashamed, curious, unsure, but it was there.
My heart had never seen such passion and excitement. More than ever, I wanted to read her, study her, learn her language.
A glimpse of her could keep me elated all day. Floating between places. Dancing between thoughts. She was the world, and the world was magic and beautiful. I don’t remember the paths taken, the food tasted, or even the money spent. I do remember fireworks, soft blankets, and olive skin in candle light. Blue-greenish eyes in a cluster of stars.
Had I not always been a traveler of your waters? I lay anchor, hoping to stay. No maps could have prepared me for what was to come.
There was nothing written down.
The story, too long to capture. Lifetimes between the lines.
I visit her sometimes now, in the dark hours. There she is, standing by the wall. We play, we dance, we laugh, and we love. But then daylight comes, and she again, is a whisper gone.
I use to laugh at those people who would chase butterflies. Who would try to catch them and keep them in a jar. Those who would try to capture beauty for a moment. But I am not sure when I became one of them. Was I not steering this ship for shore? When did my sails become blankets to cover her soft skin and naked body? When did my compass become the beating of her heart?
I toss the pins away, and open the lid for air.
The stars have moved, our planets, changed. For a few moments we were star crossed. For a few moments you lifted your mirror, and I saw myself for the first time. Have I always looked that way?
I remember looking at you. Just looking at you. That was enough. Every instance of beauty, truth, and love, was wrapped up in that moment.
It’s been a lifetime since I have seen your face.
I got your notice the other day. I followed your instructions and pulled the anchor back aboard. My hands gripped the wet chain, soaked in an ocean of tears.
You tell me that the world has become divided.
You tell me that I no longer exist in the here and now, and that the drawbridge of the present is now closed.
I didn’t realize when I became a memory. I didn’t realize when I became the past. I didn’t realize that I was sailing in your veins and not your arteries.
Away from the heart, away.
I got the hint, and I have now lowered my flag. Sailing again into the dark hours.

Awkward silence

Sara reached through the shadows to pull out the tangled mess of cords and wires. Her hands tugging and yanking while her eyes tried to follow the knots down, under, and through.

I had opened the door, and she was what I saw. I didn’t know what to do. The room was supposed to be empty; the room was supposed to be mine.
But that's where I met her; sitting cross legged on the floor buried under a pile of cords. Finger deep in wires, it looked like she was playing string games.


She looked up at me, startled by the sudden noise, and I was frozen.

There are those few and rare moments in your life when the world stops. This was one of them.

I could see myself; wandering around the room looking at me standing frozen looking at her. She was the most gorgeous woman I had seen in my life. Her blue eyes pierced through me and I wanted to tuck tail and run. But she seemed unfazed; she just stood up, dusted herself off, and then introduced herself.

I couldn’t breathe. I’m sure any normal person would be able to squeak out a syllable or maybe a shallow introduction. But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I kept looking at her with that deer caught in the headlights stare.

Something.

Anything.

What was I suppose to do?

Awkward silence.

Robert's things

Let me tell you what I know about life.

Possession and possessiveness and luck.

This is what I understand.

When I claim something as mine, be it intangible, or solid. I expect it to be mine. I want it, and everyone else, to know I have conquered and claimed.

I do not believe in sharing, equalization, or equality. None of us started out the same, how can we possible claim the illusion of equal footing? That is just what government feeds those who are down on their luck and need a little kick to feel like they can be somebody. Bullshit. The luck of the draw I say, the luck of the draw.

I was born in a private catholic hospital. The care was high, the admission higher. But the hospital was a tribute to God, and of course to those who could afford it. There were many babies born on the same day. We were all placed in lacey bassinets, lined up in a glass room. A petting zoo for people. The baby next to me, Samuel R. Houffintin, went home to a well off family, a large house, and two small dogs.

My parents were acquaintances of Mr. and Mrs. Houffintin and would allow us to play together 2 times a week.

4 years later, when the stock market crashed, Sammy’s parents lost it all. The family dropped out of social status, and sightings. Who knows what happened to little Samuel? Rotton luck, really. As luck would have it, I was born into a wealthy family. That stayed wealthy. My parents were well to do sort of people. Never a shortage of anything. Me, born gifted, talented, handsome, and intelligent, to a family of high social standings and wealth. That my friend is luck. Does that make me better than you?

Or even better than Samuel?

Well that depends where your value judgments lay. But I would say, at the very least, that I was better off.

So now that my marriage is failing, now what?

Poor me?

No, I have never been poor in my life.

Miserable, yes. Anxious, yes. Hollow, yes. Dead, definitely yes. These things I have been. But never poor.

My father use to say that the measure of a man is his means.

That makes me very rich, in everyway. It is my possessions that I own. It is my possessions that make me who I am. It is that moment when you are handed over the papers, the bag, the receipt, the keys. It is that moment, that moment of MINE. That is life. The possessiveness that follows, that’s love to varying degrees.

My father use to say, all he ever needed was a fine scotch on the rocks. I don’t think he ever really understood the nature of need.

Regardless, he was always a lot easier to please.

Next

Confessions for a dime

As I sat and watched the sun diminish behind the horizon, I felt alone.

The warm glow that had caressed my face for hours now turned into a cool sting of night frost. Still I sat in the empty parking lot hoping that the answers would come. The blank thoughts faded into detachment and as the stars littered the sky, the utter silence disturbed my very core. Disgusted I turned away in search for superficial light. Sanctity in an all night coffee shop, confessions for a dime. My coffee cup cradled in my palms, spinning, shifting, and watching the turmoil of the ocean inside. Feeling more attached to this puddle existence then the container that restrained it.

A plan, a plan, I needed a plan.

I was worried, and I was scared. It had been 5 weeks since my last period.

“It’s late, it’s just late”, I told myself. Cupping the hot coffee cup in my hands I thought about all the choices my own mother must have had to make.


I am 6 again stretched out on the rug, coloring. My mother in the kitchen, riffling through the cupboards. I hear the crinkle and folds, the clang of bottles. A low buzzing sound. The kitchen fan.
I get up and walk to my room.

A map. The map to my childhood home. Inside me I still run through the hallway. I close my eyes and hear the sound of the kitchen floor creak and bend as I move towards the door.

I vaguely remember my mother. Legs like tree stumps, thick, solid, rooted. But she was never upright. Bottle in hand, I never knew her. I knew to not speak in the mornings and not to hear in the nights.

My mistake was that I saw.

Next

The Doctor

He likes to dress me in his wife's clothing.

I can never come to him as me.

I must always pretend to be her, dress as her, respond to her name.

He claims to still love his wife while wishing he still could.

They have given up on having sex with each other a long time ago.

In the beginning, it was repetitive, routine, what married couples do. It faded into a drunken activity for the few nights they went out and had consumed too much. Drinking in hopes to escape it all; only to find themselves locked armed and hung over the next morning.

She would call it champagne love. He would just order another drink.

A few years later it became a mandatory act. Their livers wasted, the charade was over. They had separate rooms and separate lovers. Their bodies intertwined with new ones, with the one rule that the names stay the same.

The first night he heard her having sex with her lover, he broke down the door and sent the other man to the hospital. Then he tied his wife to her bed. Naked and still covered in another man's sweat and semen.

He fetched his little black bag, all the while reciting the parts of the body in his head. Digging inside he felt the cool steel of his scalpel. He wanted to cut out the organ that she had promised would be his forever.

He looked at his wife, naked, tied, silent, and his scalpel lying between her breasts. But when it came time to make the incision, he couldn't do it. Somewhere inside, he knew her heart was already dead.

Now when he hears her cries, hears his name being called out, it has no effect.

He just grabs his coat and leaves.

That's when he found me. On one of those night walks. It was late autumn, his favourite season. Somehow it was only when he saw the dead leaves on the ground, heard them crush and snap under his feet. It was only then that he felt like he belonged. He said he chosen death a long time ago and must now live through it.

Next

In the beginning

If I were to write the story of my life I would start it out slow and awkward. Unsure steps. More falling than walking. If is only in the last minute do I feel my feet catch me.

Impact.

My knees cushioning the blow.

I did not start life upright, now will I end it that way. But this story is neither about beginnings nor endings. There are too many people. The full story of my existence would entail visiting distant relatives, cousins, lovers, frinds. That gets pretty messy in print. Besides, I would have to tell their tales, and I don't care for heresay.

But let us begin somwhere.

October 27th, my birthday.

The doctor, gripping my legs, slapping my back. My eyes, not adjusted to the light squint and burn. I cry out, clear my lungs. Fill the sterile room with my voice. Waiting for the blissful reaction to my coming.

The doctor doesn't notice.

He's not done yet.

I wait till his breathing becomes short and labored before I start calling out his name. He grunts in recognition the way large animals do when exerting effort.

I cry out again, in hopes he will finish soon.

The smacking sound and rhythm repeating themselves. Echoing inside me.

My mind wanders.

He penetrates me again.

I am no longer in the room. I have left by the cracked window, slipped out when he was slipping in.

I have left his primal act in favor of shopping lists and neon lights. But I know better now than to take my body with me.


Next