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The Golden is Everywhere.
It is in the trees created by Him.
In the Light created by Him.
In the World created by Him.
In the towering structures created by the Children He created.
The rivers He made.
The mountains and The Earth and the Stars.
Space and Time.
Our minds.
Beautiful Gifts.
His Children strive to honor Him.
We love Him.
We create.
Like Our Father.
The Perfect One.
In His Image.
From the Dust of Stars.
He created.
Because He Loves.
He Loves His Children.
When we are at our Best we see Him.
And we love Him.
And each other.
When we see Him.
He is blinding.
Blindingly Wonderful.
Blindingly Beautiful.
Through everything we see acts of Kindness.
We see His Will.
We are His Children.
And He Loves Us.
It is difficult to See Him.
It is painful.
He is so Bright.
He shows us, His Children, through the Beauty of The World He has created who we are.
Who we are to Him.
How much He cares.
Who and What He Is.
We can choose.
He Loves us.
We can choose.
We can choose what we wish, where we wish to Be.
It must not be this way.
We don’t have to do the things we do.
We can fulfill His Wishes.
We can know Happiness.
We can be Good to each other.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Michael Jackson
There are many who are not kind.
He was kind and good and told to the people of the world the wonder of Life available to them, what had been shown to him.
He was given wonderful gifts for which he would be punished.
Through his song, through his voice, he shared that which he had seen.
He shared with the world the Love and the Vision that had been afforded to him by our Creator.
If they would only be kind to each other, good to each other.
He did this for Love.
Love was in his heart.
He was given wonderful gifts which he did share.
He brought Joy to many.
And he is gone.
And we love him.
He was kind and good and told to the people of the world the wonder of Life available to them, what had been shown to him.
He was given wonderful gifts for which he would be punished.
Through his song, through his voice, he shared that which he had seen.
He shared with the world the Love and the Vision that had been afforded to him by our Creator.
If they would only be kind to each other, good to each other.
He did this for Love.
Love was in his heart.
He was given wonderful gifts which he did share.
He brought Joy to many.
And he is gone.
And we love him.
Intertwined
The Golden is Everywhere.
It is in the trees created by Him.
In the Light created by Him.
In the World created by Him.
In the towering structures created by the Children He created.
The rivers He made.
The mountains and The Earth and the Stars.
Space and Time.
Our minds.
Beautiful Gifts.
His Children strive to honor Him.
We love Him.
We create.
Like Our Father.
The Perfect One.
In His Image.
From the Dust of Stars.
He created.
Because He Loves.
He Loves His Children.
When we are at our Best we see Him.
And we love Him.
And each other.
When we see Him.
He is blinding.
Blindingly Wonderful.
Blindingly Beautiful.
Through everything we see acts of Kindness.
We see His Will.
We are His Children.
And He Loves Us.
It is difficult to See Him.
It is painful.
He is so Bright.
He shows us, His Children, through the Beauty of The World He has created who we are.
Who we are to Him.
How much He cares.
Who and What He Is.
We can choose.
He Loves us.
We can choose.
We can choose what we wish, where we wish to Be.
It must not be this way.
We don’t have to do the things we do.
We can fulfill His Wishes.
We can know Happiness.
We can be Good to each other.
It is in the trees created by Him.
In the Light created by Him.
In the World created by Him.
In the towering structures created by the Children He created.
The rivers He made.
The mountains and The Earth and the Stars.
Space and Time.
Our minds.
Beautiful Gifts.
His Children strive to honor Him.
We love Him.
We create.
Like Our Father.
The Perfect One.
In His Image.
From the Dust of Stars.
He created.
Because He Loves.
He Loves His Children.
When we are at our Best we see Him.
And we love Him.
And each other.
When we see Him.
He is blinding.
Blindingly Wonderful.
Blindingly Beautiful.
Through everything we see acts of Kindness.
We see His Will.
We are His Children.
And He Loves Us.
It is difficult to See Him.
It is painful.
He is so Bright.
He shows us, His Children, through the Beauty of The World He has created who we are.
Who we are to Him.
How much He cares.
Who and What He Is.
We can choose.
He Loves us.
We can choose.
We can choose what we wish, where we wish to Be.
It must not be this way.
We don’t have to do the things we do.
We can fulfill His Wishes.
We can know Happiness.
We can be Good to each other.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Scintillation
He saw the beauty of the world.
He did not deserve to see it.
But he had.
He had seen. He had heard.
It is blinding and deafening in its Beauty.
It struck him down-not of a purpose-it was only shown to him.
It is what it is.
It is so Beautiful.
Beyond Beautiful.
The Lord whispers through trees and light.
He is Everywhere.
It is overwhelming.
But he was glad to See.
Even though it is painful.
It is painful to See Him.
It hurts so much.
Devastatingly Beautiful.
Mind-shatteringly Beautiful.
The Perfect One is Kind.
And He has created a Beautiful World for His Children.
If they would only accept It.
He saw the beauty of The World.
If they would only See.
The Beauty of The World.
He did not deserve to see it.
But he had.
He had seen. He had heard.
It is blinding and deafening in its Beauty.
It struck him down-not of a purpose-it was only shown to him.
It is what it is.
It is so Beautiful.
Beyond Beautiful.
The Lord whispers through trees and light.
He is Everywhere.
It is overwhelming.
But he was glad to See.
Even though it is painful.
It is painful to See Him.
It hurts so much.
Devastatingly Beautiful.
Mind-shatteringly Beautiful.
The Perfect One is Kind.
And He has created a Beautiful World for His Children.
If they would only accept It.
He saw the beauty of The World.
If they would only See.
The Beauty of The World.
Monday, October 12, 2009
The Return of The Dreck
The towering mountains glowed red.
The white, the blue-green, the beige, the black, the brown were melting into an orange ochre that melded with the brilliant setting of the planet’s star such that it was not possible to see where celestial beauty ended and terrestrial agony and death began.
The atmosphere crackled and snapped as the air began to change in its composition.
The thousands of generals and their aides assembled would soon be incapable of breathing.
The lava slowly flowed towards them in swift rivers that swept away tree, stone, and earth. The assembled body of the Imperial elite masked their minds. They calmed their minds. The primal, natural fear that threatened to erupt from each and every one of them would have been-if made known-disastrous.
Fear-in the presence of a Dreck-was suicide.
The young Valerian-Dreck prince struggled with his rage and spiraled towards the heavens to be away from them. He sent the congealing bolts of matter and light that coalesced around him and through him into the mountains miles away from the throng before him.
For a moment he had lost control.
How could they have failed? How could they have made his presence necessary?
He did not want them hurt. He did not want to kill them.
Yes, they had failed the Emperor.
But he did not want them dead: he had been to The Academy with the grandfathers of some of these men; he had seen their grandmothers as young maidens wooed; he had seen their fathers grow tall and strong and fit for The Service of his Emperor.
He had seen his friends, and then, their sons, grow old and die.
He would not destroy them. They had, however, through their incompetence and gross dereliction of duty put him in a situation:
He-and he alone –would have to face the Emperor and explain their continued existence.
He, and he alone-and infinitely worse-would have to face the Witch-Lord himself. His sire.
The Valerian-Dreck prince calmed his mind. He became present to the reality at hand: he stopped the movement of the molecules that were rapidly approaching the cadre of elites. The lava began to slow, then froze. A cool, bracing breeze began to cool the valley: he wanted the minds of these men to be sharp, without distraction.
He hovered above them, before them.
Gazing upon the stock-still generals he blanketed them with his attention. To a man there was a focused intention to conceal fear, weakness. Good. Their gallant-yet-feeble attempt to conceal their terror made it possible to spare them. The easily discernible-overwhelming, stark, raving- terror of the junior officers surrounding them contrasted powerfully.
The prince would spare them all.
He calmly, regally reflected into their minds such that there would be no confusion:
“96 STAN. I shall return. This rebellion will have been quelled, or not. If quelled, good. If not, I shall destroy this world, with you on it.”
The assembly of generals and their junior officers watched as the Witchling spiraled away. They all knew how fortunate they were.
Many had beloved wives, darling children, hopes, dreams that they desperately wanted to keep and to have and to hold forever.
They wanted to live.
They all thanked God that the Witchling had come, and not the Witch.
A door of the vast, sleek craft orbiting the planet opened as the Valerian–Dreck approached. He gently alighted within the well-appointed craft and greeted his people. He thanked them for their solicitude.
He dined in solitude. He regarded the world below him and hoped.
Seven billion men, women, and children.
Eleven thousand Imperial generals. Fourteen million Imperial men-under-arms. How could they have failed? How could they have put him in this position? How could they not know?
Had they not seen? Had they not heard?
Now, he would have to face the Emperor. And The Witch-Lord himself.
Perhaps he ought to have made all of this easier…it could be so much easier…
No. He couldn’t do that.
The Witch-Lord would have come to this world and taken the atmosphere. He would have deliberately ended the existence of every sentient and non-sentient being on the planet. He would have cleaved it in twain and altered its orbit.
He would have then sent it straight into the bright, beautiful star from whence it had come.
For the sake of Mercy he now had to prepare himself to see The Emperor, and The Witch-Lord.” Why do they live?” “Why have you disgraced Us?”…. “ Why do you bring shame upon your House?”
And the withering stare of his Lord. Being in the presence of his Lord, his father, who despised him.
All of this and more.
Regardless of the outcome here, The Witch-Prince would now endure the horrible, awesome attention of his Sire: for reasons unknown, the Dreck could not mask themselves from each other.
He would stare into a depthless, infinite, mirrored void in which lurked and lived his only and greatest fear: that he would see his reflection, that he, The Witchling would one day become The Witch.
That this meeting would transpire was a foregone conclusion. This, plus the task at hand would require strength and focus. He would need rest: unlike the Dreck who could never rest nor sleep, he could rest, in a fashion.
He stepped over to the large window facing upward and outward to regard the ocean of stars surrounding him. By slow degrees he cleared his mind and released himself of the bonds of space and time to visit a wonderful, magical world where he would replenish his spirit, restore his soul.
Once there, he breathed easy, deeply.
He walked across lush, verdant fields, his feet bare on the rich, fragrant soil. He ran his fingers through gently undulating amber waves of grain. He uplifted his face to behold a sky rich and deep in its blue, and to be touched, caressed by a warm and soft wind warmed and animated by a beautiful, beloved, long-ago vanished star called the Sun.
Almost all of The Children of the Diaspora had this deeply imprinted ability, this race-memory, this innate talent to assuage their profound sense of the loss of their ancestral home and each other: they had developed a way to commune with each other and to be together though they had been scattered across the stars and throughout the known worlds.
During these times of quiet, joyful communion, the Valerian-Dreck prince could only feel a profound sense of sadness for the only two creatures in the known worlds whom he otherwise dreaded, the only two creatures in the known worlds who could conceivably destroy him, do him harm: the Emperor and The Witch-Lord.
Neither of them had ever been to this place.
Deep, deep in The Ancient Time far, far and long gone, The Original, The Ancestors had seen their wonderful star, The Sun, verge upon red. It was soon to envelope the solar system and all the Life in it.
The Original, in Their great wisdom, had discerned this coming catastrophe soon enough to adequately prepare for it: they pin-pointed other stars, other worlds which could sustain not only human life-but all life as they knew it.
They constructed millions upon millions of vast crafts capable of transporting themselves, the beasts of the air, land, and sea. They made provision to carry away with them vast quantities of the air, water, and the earth itself; all flora, all fauna, basically, everything would be taken with them, next to nothing would be left behind.
After several Earth centuries, they were ready, and they calmly fled.
They went in their hundreds of millions to hundreds of worlds of different sizes and compositions-but all capable of sustaining life comfortably-within their galactic reach.
The Titanic undertaking was colossally successful: billions were properly and happily relocated and restored to the business of “normal” life.
However, given the very scope of the enterprise, it was only natural for mistakes to have been made.
One case in particular was tragic.
The case of the world named Dreck.
A terrible mistake about that world’s suitability for life had been made.
The atmosphere was toxic and super-heated, and the surface itself was scorching. The instruments on the crafts carrying several million human beings critically malfunctioned upon entry into the atmosphere.
There were a scant hundreds of thousands of survivors.
Of those doomed people, only those who could double and treble the nascent psionic powers possessed by The Original would survive: only those who could transform the very chemicals of the atmosphere into breathable oxygen with the power of their minds would survive; only those who could control their physical position relative to the surface with their minds (to stay off of it), who learned, in other words, to fly, would survive.
Only those who could stay awake long enough, for forever, to focus their constant attention to these tasks would survive.
There were very, very few who could do all of these things.
There were very, very few survivors.
Those who did survive were doomed to a nightmarish existence of never-ending sleeplessness and hyper-vigilance that eventually warped their minds and fundamentally changed their relationship with reality and their own humanity.
They and their doomed progeny became living and breathing embodiments, reflections of the merciless and cruel and insane world to which they had been tragically sent; and they would be ever-after known by all others by the name of that world:
The Dreck.
Word had been sent to the Valerian-Dreck Prince: the rebellion had been put down in less than 80 STAN hours.
Less than a billion people had been destroyed. A great deal of critical infrastructure had been either spared, or only lightly damaged. This meant that the resource-rich world would still be of great value to the Emperor and the Empire.
This was excellent news.
While mop-up operations would probably continue for some few short days, the Prince would now be able to focus on administrative matters that would not entail his personally killing billions of people: there would, of course, be reports to be reviewed; rewards of titles and lands to be awarded to senior officers; there would be wives from amongst the vanquished population (only the most beautiful and accomplished) to be gifted to the junior officers and their most outstanding men.
The disposition of prisoners and other such minutiae he would leave to the generals.
The golden Beauty embraced him.
She was beautiful, as She had always been.
She held his hand as they walked through the forested gardens of the crystal-domed valley, the gardens of Her family.
She loved him, though she knew his mind and the horror contained within him better than he did. He had come from her. There was Love and Kindness inside of Her child. He had come from Her.
She would help him, the world.
She saw across The Arc of Time and knew that Good would prevail.
He could not bewitch Her, his mother, his Angel.
She only loved him. This was Her nature.
“Do not fly about. This may frighten her. You have a lovely voice. Use it…”
He laughed.
“Perhaps you should have “said” that, Mother.”
It was natural for Her to think into the mind of Her child. She blushed. “Do not be clever.”
She laughed.
“Do not cast a spell upon her. You need not do this. Your lives will be so much better if she knows you, if you trust her.”
She stopped and regarded him. “Please. In this, do as I say.”
He held Her hand and basked in Her love. “I love you.”
He cleared his mind and released himself of the bonds of gravity.
He let his feet no longer touch the ground.
Acorns and leaves and small stones orbited around him in ellipses as he rotated in the beauty of a beautiful world.
The daughter of a Baron stared into the sky and regarded him.
His mother had explained to her that he was different, that he could love, that she could love him.
He was faraway. He was obviously the son of a Valerian.
The young woman was known as The Beautiful One to her people, the Valeria, known throughout the known worlds as beautiful, kind, caring, The Far-Seeing.
The blood that ran through her veins was the same blood that ran through the veins of the kind woman that she trusted, that had shown to her a bright and beautiful future.
The enormous attention that suddenly swept across her and focused upon her was shocking.
The objects floating around him clattered, fell to the ground.
She had seen.
“I am here.”
He swept down to her.
“Do not cast a spell upon me.” She was fearless. And it was immediate.
“I never shall. I promise.”
“I will love you, give you children.”
The kindness that flowed from her, that she directed into his mind was overwhelmingly beautiful, bright, shining.
“Forget your pain. You, they, we, my Darling, are good.”
_________________________________________________________________
Their magnificent children brought Joy and Goodness to the worlds.
Pain and suffering ended, The Empire went away.
__________________________________________________________________
All of The Children of The Sun knew Happiness.
And they were happy.
They were good to each other, they were no longer cruel to each other.
All of the Kindred, all of the Children, even the Dreck, had returned.
The white, the blue-green, the beige, the black, the brown were melting into an orange ochre that melded with the brilliant setting of the planet’s star such that it was not possible to see where celestial beauty ended and terrestrial agony and death began.
The atmosphere crackled and snapped as the air began to change in its composition.
The thousands of generals and their aides assembled would soon be incapable of breathing.
The lava slowly flowed towards them in swift rivers that swept away tree, stone, and earth. The assembled body of the Imperial elite masked their minds. They calmed their minds. The primal, natural fear that threatened to erupt from each and every one of them would have been-if made known-disastrous.
Fear-in the presence of a Dreck-was suicide.
The young Valerian-Dreck prince struggled with his rage and spiraled towards the heavens to be away from them. He sent the congealing bolts of matter and light that coalesced around him and through him into the mountains miles away from the throng before him.
For a moment he had lost control.
How could they have failed? How could they have made his presence necessary?
He did not want them hurt. He did not want to kill them.
Yes, they had failed the Emperor.
But he did not want them dead: he had been to The Academy with the grandfathers of some of these men; he had seen their grandmothers as young maidens wooed; he had seen their fathers grow tall and strong and fit for The Service of his Emperor.
He had seen his friends, and then, their sons, grow old and die.
He would not destroy them. They had, however, through their incompetence and gross dereliction of duty put him in a situation:
He-and he alone –would have to face the Emperor and explain their continued existence.
He, and he alone-and infinitely worse-would have to face the Witch-Lord himself. His sire.
The Valerian-Dreck prince calmed his mind. He became present to the reality at hand: he stopped the movement of the molecules that were rapidly approaching the cadre of elites. The lava began to slow, then froze. A cool, bracing breeze began to cool the valley: he wanted the minds of these men to be sharp, without distraction.
He hovered above them, before them.
Gazing upon the stock-still generals he blanketed them with his attention. To a man there was a focused intention to conceal fear, weakness. Good. Their gallant-yet-feeble attempt to conceal their terror made it possible to spare them. The easily discernible-overwhelming, stark, raving- terror of the junior officers surrounding them contrasted powerfully.
The prince would spare them all.
He calmly, regally reflected into their minds such that there would be no confusion:
“96 STAN. I shall return. This rebellion will have been quelled, or not. If quelled, good. If not, I shall destroy this world, with you on it.”
The assembly of generals and their junior officers watched as the Witchling spiraled away. They all knew how fortunate they were.
Many had beloved wives, darling children, hopes, dreams that they desperately wanted to keep and to have and to hold forever.
They wanted to live.
They all thanked God that the Witchling had come, and not the Witch.
A door of the vast, sleek craft orbiting the planet opened as the Valerian–Dreck approached. He gently alighted within the well-appointed craft and greeted his people. He thanked them for their solicitude.
He dined in solitude. He regarded the world below him and hoped.
Seven billion men, women, and children.
Eleven thousand Imperial generals. Fourteen million Imperial men-under-arms. How could they have failed? How could they have put him in this position? How could they not know?
Had they not seen? Had they not heard?
Now, he would have to face the Emperor. And The Witch-Lord himself.
Perhaps he ought to have made all of this easier…it could be so much easier…
No. He couldn’t do that.
The Witch-Lord would have come to this world and taken the atmosphere. He would have deliberately ended the existence of every sentient and non-sentient being on the planet. He would have cleaved it in twain and altered its orbit.
He would have then sent it straight into the bright, beautiful star from whence it had come.
For the sake of Mercy he now had to prepare himself to see The Emperor, and The Witch-Lord.” Why do they live?” “Why have you disgraced Us?”…. “ Why do you bring shame upon your House?”
And the withering stare of his Lord. Being in the presence of his Lord, his father, who despised him.
All of this and more.
Regardless of the outcome here, The Witch-Prince would now endure the horrible, awesome attention of his Sire: for reasons unknown, the Dreck could not mask themselves from each other.
He would stare into a depthless, infinite, mirrored void in which lurked and lived his only and greatest fear: that he would see his reflection, that he, The Witchling would one day become The Witch.
That this meeting would transpire was a foregone conclusion. This, plus the task at hand would require strength and focus. He would need rest: unlike the Dreck who could never rest nor sleep, he could rest, in a fashion.
He stepped over to the large window facing upward and outward to regard the ocean of stars surrounding him. By slow degrees he cleared his mind and released himself of the bonds of space and time to visit a wonderful, magical world where he would replenish his spirit, restore his soul.
Once there, he breathed easy, deeply.
He walked across lush, verdant fields, his feet bare on the rich, fragrant soil. He ran his fingers through gently undulating amber waves of grain. He uplifted his face to behold a sky rich and deep in its blue, and to be touched, caressed by a warm and soft wind warmed and animated by a beautiful, beloved, long-ago vanished star called the Sun.
Almost all of The Children of the Diaspora had this deeply imprinted ability, this race-memory, this innate talent to assuage their profound sense of the loss of their ancestral home and each other: they had developed a way to commune with each other and to be together though they had been scattered across the stars and throughout the known worlds.
During these times of quiet, joyful communion, the Valerian-Dreck prince could only feel a profound sense of sadness for the only two creatures in the known worlds whom he otherwise dreaded, the only two creatures in the known worlds who could conceivably destroy him, do him harm: the Emperor and The Witch-Lord.
Neither of them had ever been to this place.
Deep, deep in The Ancient Time far, far and long gone, The Original, The Ancestors had seen their wonderful star, The Sun, verge upon red. It was soon to envelope the solar system and all the Life in it.
The Original, in Their great wisdom, had discerned this coming catastrophe soon enough to adequately prepare for it: they pin-pointed other stars, other worlds which could sustain not only human life-but all life as they knew it.
They constructed millions upon millions of vast crafts capable of transporting themselves, the beasts of the air, land, and sea. They made provision to carry away with them vast quantities of the air, water, and the earth itself; all flora, all fauna, basically, everything would be taken with them, next to nothing would be left behind.
After several Earth centuries, they were ready, and they calmly fled.
They went in their hundreds of millions to hundreds of worlds of different sizes and compositions-but all capable of sustaining life comfortably-within their galactic reach.
The Titanic undertaking was colossally successful: billions were properly and happily relocated and restored to the business of “normal” life.
However, given the very scope of the enterprise, it was only natural for mistakes to have been made.
One case in particular was tragic.
The case of the world named Dreck.
A terrible mistake about that world’s suitability for life had been made.
The atmosphere was toxic and super-heated, and the surface itself was scorching. The instruments on the crafts carrying several million human beings critically malfunctioned upon entry into the atmosphere.
There were a scant hundreds of thousands of survivors.
Of those doomed people, only those who could double and treble the nascent psionic powers possessed by The Original would survive: only those who could transform the very chemicals of the atmosphere into breathable oxygen with the power of their minds would survive; only those who could control their physical position relative to the surface with their minds (to stay off of it), who learned, in other words, to fly, would survive.
Only those who could stay awake long enough, for forever, to focus their constant attention to these tasks would survive.
There were very, very few who could do all of these things.
There were very, very few survivors.
Those who did survive were doomed to a nightmarish existence of never-ending sleeplessness and hyper-vigilance that eventually warped their minds and fundamentally changed their relationship with reality and their own humanity.
They and their doomed progeny became living and breathing embodiments, reflections of the merciless and cruel and insane world to which they had been tragically sent; and they would be ever-after known by all others by the name of that world:
The Dreck.
Word had been sent to the Valerian-Dreck Prince: the rebellion had been put down in less than 80 STAN hours.
Less than a billion people had been destroyed. A great deal of critical infrastructure had been either spared, or only lightly damaged. This meant that the resource-rich world would still be of great value to the Emperor and the Empire.
This was excellent news.
While mop-up operations would probably continue for some few short days, the Prince would now be able to focus on administrative matters that would not entail his personally killing billions of people: there would, of course, be reports to be reviewed; rewards of titles and lands to be awarded to senior officers; there would be wives from amongst the vanquished population (only the most beautiful and accomplished) to be gifted to the junior officers and their most outstanding men.
The disposition of prisoners and other such minutiae he would leave to the generals.
The golden Beauty embraced him.
She was beautiful, as She had always been.
She held his hand as they walked through the forested gardens of the crystal-domed valley, the gardens of Her family.
She loved him, though she knew his mind and the horror contained within him better than he did. He had come from her. There was Love and Kindness inside of Her child. He had come from Her.
She would help him, the world.
She saw across The Arc of Time and knew that Good would prevail.
He could not bewitch Her, his mother, his Angel.
She only loved him. This was Her nature.
“Do not fly about. This may frighten her. You have a lovely voice. Use it…”
He laughed.
“Perhaps you should have “said” that, Mother.”
It was natural for Her to think into the mind of Her child. She blushed. “Do not be clever.”
She laughed.
“Do not cast a spell upon her. You need not do this. Your lives will be so much better if she knows you, if you trust her.”
She stopped and regarded him. “Please. In this, do as I say.”
He held Her hand and basked in Her love. “I love you.”
He cleared his mind and released himself of the bonds of gravity.
He let his feet no longer touch the ground.
Acorns and leaves and small stones orbited around him in ellipses as he rotated in the beauty of a beautiful world.
The daughter of a Baron stared into the sky and regarded him.
His mother had explained to her that he was different, that he could love, that she could love him.
He was faraway. He was obviously the son of a Valerian.
The young woman was known as The Beautiful One to her people, the Valeria, known throughout the known worlds as beautiful, kind, caring, The Far-Seeing.
The blood that ran through her veins was the same blood that ran through the veins of the kind woman that she trusted, that had shown to her a bright and beautiful future.
The enormous attention that suddenly swept across her and focused upon her was shocking.
The objects floating around him clattered, fell to the ground.
She had seen.
“I am here.”
He swept down to her.
“Do not cast a spell upon me.” She was fearless. And it was immediate.
“I never shall. I promise.”
“I will love you, give you children.”
The kindness that flowed from her, that she directed into his mind was overwhelmingly beautiful, bright, shining.
“Forget your pain. You, they, we, my Darling, are good.”
_________________________________________________________________
Their magnificent children brought Joy and Goodness to the worlds.
Pain and suffering ended, The Empire went away.
__________________________________________________________________
All of The Children of The Sun knew Happiness.
And they were happy.
They were good to each other, they were no longer cruel to each other.
All of the Kindred, all of the Children, even the Dreck, had returned.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
When He Walked
They could not find Him.
He should have been there, in that cave, where they had seen the Romans put Him, His body.
The huge stone, the huge stone that they had put there had been moved, should have still been there.
They had watched them put Him into that cave. They had watched them do it.
They had watched them crucify Him.
They had seen the agony that He had suffered as He walked up that hill.
Golgotha, for them, and the rest of The World.
They watched Him die there.
These three beautiful women understood, had seen, who He was, what He was.
They thought that they might wash His body, cleanse Him, honor Him.
He had loved them so much.
They loved Him.
They could not find Him. He was not there.
They were heart-broken. He was gone.
They were overjoyed when they found that everything that He had said to them is
True.
They had none of them known such happiness, such rapture.
He was The Truth and The Word.
They saw Him walking.
He should have been there, in that cave, where they had seen the Romans put Him, His body.
The huge stone, the huge stone that they had put there had been moved, should have still been there.
They had watched them put Him into that cave. They had watched them do it.
They had watched them crucify Him.
They had seen the agony that He had suffered as He walked up that hill.
Golgotha, for them, and the rest of The World.
They watched Him die there.
These three beautiful women understood, had seen, who He was, what He was.
They thought that they might wash His body, cleanse Him, honor Him.
He had loved them so much.
They loved Him.
They could not find Him. He was not there.
They were heart-broken. He was gone.
They were overjoyed when they found that everything that He had said to them is
True.
They had none of them known such happiness, such rapture.
He was The Truth and The Word.
They saw Him walking.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
The Disc
It was bright and it warmed him.
He could not look at it.
It was far too bright.
It would have destroyed his ability to see the beauty that it had created, made possible, long before he had arrived.
But he had come from it, so he loved it-the warmth that it gave to him; the beauty it showed to him; the goldening and the emeralding and the diamonding and the sparkling movement of the wonderful trees that was so enrapturing.
The green grass and the soft winds and the warm water; the very air itself- everything and everything and everyone had come from it, this mixture of hydrogen and helium.
He, everyone that he knew, everyone that he loved was animated dust from this star, the star that was too beautiful to gaze upon. He loved it so much.
It was so wonderful, such a wonderful creation by his Creator.
There was true wonder, happiness to be known in this world.
He was happy.
He was glad that he could see it, perceive it.
He loved The Star, The Sun.
He could not look at it.
It was far too bright.
It would have destroyed his ability to see the beauty that it had created, made possible, long before he had arrived.
But he had come from it, so he loved it-the warmth that it gave to him; the beauty it showed to him; the goldening and the emeralding and the diamonding and the sparkling movement of the wonderful trees that was so enrapturing.
The green grass and the soft winds and the warm water; the very air itself- everything and everything and everyone had come from it, this mixture of hydrogen and helium.
He, everyone that he knew, everyone that he loved was animated dust from this star, the star that was too beautiful to gaze upon. He loved it so much.
It was so wonderful, such a wonderful creation by his Creator.
There was true wonder, happiness to be known in this world.
He was happy.
He was glad that he could see it, perceive it.
He loved The Star, The Sun.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
The Letter
Dad, Kayla,
I want you to understand.
This has nothing to do with anything that you have ever said or done: you’ve done nothing but give me love and kindness. I love you so much. I’m so sorry. You have both been there for me when I had nothing, bereft of everything.
I owe you the explanation.
Dad, I didn’t tell you how bad the drugs that they gave me made me feel. I’m sorry. I feel like I snowed you. But I so wanted to be better, not to disappoint you anymore. I wanted them to work. I did try, I tried so hard. I’m sorry. You and Mummy gave me so many wonderful gifts, but I have squandered them. I apologize.
I hated the drugs. I was crawling in my own skin. I was so amped all the time-and you know that I’m the last person in the world who needs to be amped. The sleep-meds helped me to sleep, but I’m so tightly wound that they had to keep increasing the dosage. I was on a roller coaster-up and down. I didn’t feel better. I just felt strange, weird. I couldn’t tell my psych because she would have had me locked up. I was totally trapped.
I am, I am totally trapped. I’m sorry.
I tried, I swear, I tried so hard, please believe me, I just couldn’t keep taking them.
I tried hooch, booze, for a little bit, but that didn’t work either: I felt worse.
The dreams are becoming so much more frequent. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about the dreams. I never liked them. Kay, you know, from when we were little that I hated them, that I knew that everyone hated them.
Me.
For having them. I wished they would stop. I hate them, too. I’ve always hated them. They won’t stop. I’m sorry.
I wake up and I ask God why, why did He do this to me? Why do I have to See the terrible things people have done to each other, See the horrible things that they are going to do to each other?
What did I do? I must have done something, I must have. But I don’t know what.
He wouldn’t have done this to me if I had done nothing wrong. I wish I knew what I have done. Then I could ask Him for forgiveness. But I don’t know.
I go to sleep in total dread of what I will See when I want to See nothing.
I hate Seeing.
I’m tired. I’m tired of asking why. The redundancy of people’s cruel actions is in my face, day, and night. Dad, Kay, please understand.
I can never rest, that’s what I’m trying to say. I just want to rest, have peace.
I told you about Her.
I want you to be happy.
I’ve not known happiness or peace since I was six.
I wish I could share with you the wonderful things She has shown to me. There is so much more than I have seen here.
We’re like two-dimensional creatures in a three-dimensional world.
She’s wonderful. I never See terrible things anymore. She tells me that I will never see these things again. And I haven’t.
There are so many wonderful places, and the world is so vast, so beautiful.
She has shown to me worlds that are beyond my ability to describe. All of the stars and the worlds around them, all of the places that we see but don’t, the fields of green grass that feel, the beautiful trees that love, the structures of light and sound that are like gold and silver that remind me of cathedrals, what cathedrals are. Sights that are deliciously textured, music-but everything is music and wondrous-with the beautiful fragrance that I have only imagined but now understand is real: the wonder of reality.
I know that you don’t like hearing about these things, but She needs me, She loves me.
She knows about the pain that this may cause to those whom I love, but She says it will pass: She loves me, too. I don’t want you to be angry with Her.
She says that we can be together, that She can give to me what I will never know here: peace.
She’s so beautiful, so kind, so warm.
Please be happy for me. She gives me warmth, peace. She’s exceptionally intelligent: we have extraordinary conversations regarding anything and everything.
I can talk to Her about anything, and She still loves me.
Even though I am… like, what I am, like this.
With Her I’m not ashamed anymore, She’s not ashamed of me.
I love Her.
I have my concerns, but She asks me if I want to stay here, in this place, like this, or be with Her. Forever. In peace. She says that we can rest together, in peace, forever, I believe Her.
To rest in peace forever with Her, as opposed to no rest, no peace. I'm so tired.
All that She wants from me is me.
She has shown me a way, a way to be with Her, the most glowingly bright, beautiful creature that I have ever encountered. Anywhere.
She says that it will only hurt for a few moments, then, we can be together.
And we can be happy. I can be happy.
I can finally know Happiness.
She says that She can give me Happiness.
I won’t be alone anymore.
I’m afraid that She has become impatient.
All of my papers, account numbers, bank names, locations, Will, et cetera, documents of any significance are in the upper-right hand drawer of the bureau next to the desk in my office at my place. It will be unlocked. I believe everything is fairly self-explanatory, and I’ve already made you both joint beneficiaries on everything that I have here. I believe things will go smoothly- just have your I.D. and the certificate from the state when you go to close things out.
I love you.
Your Son, your Brother
I want you to understand.
This has nothing to do with anything that you have ever said or done: you’ve done nothing but give me love and kindness. I love you so much. I’m so sorry. You have both been there for me when I had nothing, bereft of everything.
I owe you the explanation.
Dad, I didn’t tell you how bad the drugs that they gave me made me feel. I’m sorry. I feel like I snowed you. But I so wanted to be better, not to disappoint you anymore. I wanted them to work. I did try, I tried so hard. I’m sorry. You and Mummy gave me so many wonderful gifts, but I have squandered them. I apologize.
I hated the drugs. I was crawling in my own skin. I was so amped all the time-and you know that I’m the last person in the world who needs to be amped. The sleep-meds helped me to sleep, but I’m so tightly wound that they had to keep increasing the dosage. I was on a roller coaster-up and down. I didn’t feel better. I just felt strange, weird. I couldn’t tell my psych because she would have had me locked up. I was totally trapped.
I am, I am totally trapped. I’m sorry.
I tried, I swear, I tried so hard, please believe me, I just couldn’t keep taking them.
I tried hooch, booze, for a little bit, but that didn’t work either: I felt worse.
The dreams are becoming so much more frequent. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about the dreams. I never liked them. Kay, you know, from when we were little that I hated them, that I knew that everyone hated them.
Me.
For having them. I wished they would stop. I hate them, too. I’ve always hated them. They won’t stop. I’m sorry.
I wake up and I ask God why, why did He do this to me? Why do I have to See the terrible things people have done to each other, See the horrible things that they are going to do to each other?
What did I do? I must have done something, I must have. But I don’t know what.
He wouldn’t have done this to me if I had done nothing wrong. I wish I knew what I have done. Then I could ask Him for forgiveness. But I don’t know.
I go to sleep in total dread of what I will See when I want to See nothing.
I hate Seeing.
I’m tired. I’m tired of asking why. The redundancy of people’s cruel actions is in my face, day, and night. Dad, Kay, please understand.
I can never rest, that’s what I’m trying to say. I just want to rest, have peace.
I told you about Her.
I want you to be happy.
I’ve not known happiness or peace since I was six.
I wish I could share with you the wonderful things She has shown to me. There is so much more than I have seen here.
We’re like two-dimensional creatures in a three-dimensional world.
She’s wonderful. I never See terrible things anymore. She tells me that I will never see these things again. And I haven’t.
There are so many wonderful places, and the world is so vast, so beautiful.
She has shown to me worlds that are beyond my ability to describe. All of the stars and the worlds around them, all of the places that we see but don’t, the fields of green grass that feel, the beautiful trees that love, the structures of light and sound that are like gold and silver that remind me of cathedrals, what cathedrals are. Sights that are deliciously textured, music-but everything is music and wondrous-with the beautiful fragrance that I have only imagined but now understand is real: the wonder of reality.
I know that you don’t like hearing about these things, but She needs me, She loves me.
She knows about the pain that this may cause to those whom I love, but She says it will pass: She loves me, too. I don’t want you to be angry with Her.
She says that we can be together, that She can give to me what I will never know here: peace.
She’s so beautiful, so kind, so warm.
Please be happy for me. She gives me warmth, peace. She’s exceptionally intelligent: we have extraordinary conversations regarding anything and everything.
I can talk to Her about anything, and She still loves me.
Even though I am… like, what I am, like this.
With Her I’m not ashamed anymore, She’s not ashamed of me.
I love Her.
I have my concerns, but She asks me if I want to stay here, in this place, like this, or be with Her. Forever. In peace. She says that we can rest together, in peace, forever, I believe Her.
To rest in peace forever with Her, as opposed to no rest, no peace. I'm so tired.
All that She wants from me is me.
She has shown me a way, a way to be with Her, the most glowingly bright, beautiful creature that I have ever encountered. Anywhere.
She says that it will only hurt for a few moments, then, we can be together.
And we can be happy. I can be happy.
I can finally know Happiness.
She says that She can give me Happiness.
I won’t be alone anymore.
I’m afraid that She has become impatient.
All of my papers, account numbers, bank names, locations, Will, et cetera, documents of any significance are in the upper-right hand drawer of the bureau next to the desk in my office at my place. It will be unlocked. I believe everything is fairly self-explanatory, and I’ve already made you both joint beneficiaries on everything that I have here. I believe things will go smoothly- just have your I.D. and the certificate from the state when you go to close things out.
I love you.
Your Son, your Brother
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Children on An Altar
The revolting stench of petrol and burnt flesh that hung in the hot, dry, still air should have turned his stomach. But it didn’t. Not anymore.
He was glad to be away from what had been a walled family compound, if only for the few minutes it would take to complete the radio-check, give a status report, and await any news or orders from Command.
Now unconsciously ever-vigilant, Chad was “relaxed” as he strode towards the Hummer, various sub-programs deep in the foundation of his mind furiously processing, continuously assessing any and every motion of any object or shadow; any change in sound or sounds; any “feeling” of imminent danger. It had been the business of his long-ago vanished, ancient ancestors to survive in dark forests and vast savannahs filled with creatures that were much stronger and faster than they were. Creatures that wanted to kill and eat them.
These ancestors had bequeathed to him a set of instincts that-though long dormant-were now thrivingly alert: he was totally aware of his surroundings, and his body would be prepared to either fight to the death, or flee like the wind to preserve his life if the need arose.
And there were things out there that wanted to kill him. This was a matter of fact.
He reached their Hummer. The appointed time arrived, and he completed the radio check: it still worked, HQ was still there, and they knew that he was still alive. There was nothing to do now but wait for word from The Great and Powerful Oz (the Colonel-or actually, an NCO who spoke for Him). Chad broke out his metal canteen cup, rooted around in his ruck for the jar of instant coffee, some packets of non-dairy creamer, and some sugar. He blew the sand and dust from the cup and mixed a healthy dollop of coffee with the rest to kill the bitterness. He poured half of it into his mouth and began to chew. He followed up with a quart of water and repeated. The adrenalin from the last several hours was wearing off, and he knew neither how long he had been awake, nor when he would sleep again. Thus, the jolt.
Chad eased himself into the Hummer to escape the direct rays of the sun, pulled his weapon in behind him, and lit a smoke. He removed his helmet and began to stare into the bright blue canopy which vaulted far above the sadness below it. He regarded the sky and considered that there were billions of people under that same sky who were living “real life” in a world that was becoming less and less comprehensible to him with each and every passing day. In that world, life didn’t seem to include the ever-present reality that death could sweep in out of nowhere at any time for anyone. A delusion. If he made it home, he wondered what it would be like now that he knew, understood the ephemeral, fragile, unpromised nature of life.
But he wanted to go home, to that dream world. But when and if he ever saw home again was totally and absolutely out of his control: a large swath of Southwest Asia; the continent of Africa (or Europe); and a vast ocean separated him from it, and only the powers-that-be could return him. And only when they saw fit: he was already past his ETS, the date upon which he should have been already honorably discharged from the army and sent home.
Were he to let all of this truly sink in, it would have driven him insane. So, he didn’t.
He quickly sought another topic of internal discussion and found one.
Something safe, eternal, non-temporal:
Why was it first, the first one? The others seemed to be so well-grounded in nuts-and-bolts common sense: “Listen to your Mom and Dad”- Chad was finding out all the time how important this one was. Much grief would have been avoided had he heeded it more consistently. “Don’t go around murderin’ folks”-speaks for itself; “no stealin’, thievin’”; “no spreadin’ rumors, lies”; “Keep your mind and your mitts off of your neighbor’s stuff-especially his wife”; and, if you are married, “don’t cheat”. These all made good sense, and had they been adhered to by far more people, the world would have been a much better place.
So, why was “you shall have no other gods before me” first? Narcissism? He was, after all, God Almighty, so…why not? Who had a better claim, or more of a right to some self-absorption than He did? Right? Or did it “just happen” to be first?
Or was it a warning? A profoundly important and dire warning. Like Mom’s constant and, ultimately, unheeded warnings against playing with fire when he had been a little child. And as painful as the mild burns on his little fingers had been, the consequences were-thank God-nowhere near as catastrophic as they might have been.
He had discovered for himself the painful consequences of disobeying commands of hers the nature of which he could not grasp, could not understand.
Her warnings had been all about love and protecting her child.
Chad pulled a peanut butter granola bar-his favorite (sent to him by The Cool and Wonderful Mom)-from his cargo pocket and began to munch. He retrieved a cardboard-backed, plastic-encased issue of Playboy from his ruck. He considered Miss March. She was beautiful. Gentle and kind. Thoughtful and caring, with a wry sense of humor. Her wonderful parents had carefully and lovingly attended to all of her physical, emotional, and spiritual needs: her’s was the countenance of a girl who was at peace with herself, with the world. And that world was a sane and well-ordered world. She enjoyed fine art, staying healthy and fit, cooking, and metaphysical inquiry: their conversations might last for hours. And she adored children, volunteering regularly at a nursery school in the village.
And he was returning to her, glad to be alive, the sleek, late-model Mercedes convertible gliding upon the wonderfully smooth, flawless road home; the warm, fragrant summer air a blessing as he moved through the beautifully-wooded hills. Work had been good. Another wonderful week of doing important and valuable things, things that people needed done, things that made their lives better. It had been challenging, fun, and, at times, difficult, but had nothing-nothing at all-to do with hurting anyone, killing anyone.
The woods gave way to a clearing filled with flowers, gardens she had assiduously cultivated. She was there, waiting for him in the door of their brightly painted Victorian home, surrounded by the gardens and towering, stately trees.
He gave to her flowers that he gladly brought to her every day. And she gladly accepted them as she always did.
And they were happy.
The wondrously beautiful composition of divinely-animated stardust embraced and kissed him, her mere existence proof that life was more than the aggregation of tragedies that it so often seemed to be.
She took his hand as they entered their home, captivating him with the mellifluous tones emanating from her lovely throat as she began to tell him of her day. Soft, golden light cascaded into the home she had so richly and tastefully decorated; the delicious aromas of some of his favorites wafted from the kitchen; and the beer that she handed to him was ice cold.
Chad was basking in the pleasure of being alive when a shadow suddenly appeared and quickly overtook this carefully and lovingly constructed world, extinguishing it.
It collapsed in upon itself and receded into the recesses of his mind.
“Hey, Preacher.” It was Chad’s Ace Boon, Dana.
“Hey, Elvis.” Though Dana was known by many of his loyal fans and supporters (and a few jealous detractors) only as Elvis, Chad only called him that when he was mildly annoyed with him.
Dana bore no remarkable physical similarity to The King-he was very blond with green eyes-but he hailed from the same neck of the Tennessee woods, had the same twang, and-probably most importantly-all the girls seemed to lose their minds in his presence.
Likewise, Chad was known to many as The Preacher only in small part due to his substantial ecclesiastical knowledge: he was not much of a proselytizer, but his grandfather was an ordained Baptist minister. It had been Dana who had let that cat out of the bag some time ago when, after Chad had graciously declined to partake of the delights of Victory Drive down at Fort Benning, the guys had ribbed him mercilessly. Dana explained that it was a matter of religious scruple.
Of course, Chad was glad to have them think him a tower of unflappable moral rectitude rather than have them know that he was just plain too shy: he would have been perfectly happy just to have held a girl for a while, kissed her, maybe. “One last time”-just in case-before his very first jump at jump school. The thought of his chute not opening had seriously crossed his mind: he had been scared, but all of the men in the Army he admired had wings on their chests, and his admiration of their fearlessness and various other attributes compelled him to emulate them.
Dana set his weapon down, leaning it against the Hummer. “Any news from The Wizard?”
“Nope. All is quiet on the western front.”
Dana laughed, “Don’t go jinxin’ us, Homey. Hey! You’ll never guess who I found out’s here!”
“Who?”
“Country!”
“”Country”…”Country”?! Carver?! From Basic?!”
“Yeah, man. Alive and well. Even got ‘em some stripes. Been at Bragg all this time.”
“Really? Bragg?”
“Yep. Don’t you remember? 11 Bang-Bang, Airborne Infantry. He’s been there longer than we have.” Their military intelligence and language training had been considerably longer than Country’s infantry school.
Chad smiled with genuine affection: Country had been a hoot, always laughing, cracking everybody up with his razor-sharp wit, with the Drill Sergeants always at him, vociferously casting doubt upon the authenticity of his G.E.D.:
“You ain’t got no G.E.D.!!! You too damn country to have a G.E.D.!!! Who you tryin’ to fool?!! You can’t even spell “G.E.D.”!!!”
Actually, Country was extremely intelligent, and could have done anything with a proper education, but the Worthies of a bygone era knew that it would have been extremely bad for business (mind-bogglingly lucrative business) if children who looked like him were ever educated. So they weren’t. And the tradition had lived on.
“So what’s he up to?”
“Same as us. Just in an “eleven bang-bang” kinda’ way: “fightin’ to keep our country free”.
They both laughed.
“I mean where’s he at right now?” Chad asked.
“Down yonder, by those humvees.” He was pointing at a cluster of vehicles a couple of hundred meters away. He lit himself a smoke. “He had some kinda’ formation to go to.”
“A formation? Out here? What for?” Chad was surprised: his and Dana’s outfit didn’t do a lot of the formation thing.
“To take those pills.”
“Pills? What pills?”
“You know. Homey, that stuff that’s supposed to “bond with our DNA at the chromosomal level” or some such crap, to block the chemical and nerve agents.”
Chad was incredulous. “What?! They put them in formation to take that stuff? Why? It’s voluntary.”
“For us it is. And get this; they think it’s all approved and safe.”
“Who told them that?”
“The Powers-That-Be.”
“Dude, they can’t get our pay straight-remember how they thought you were in Germany for the first six months we were at DLI, and you had to mooch off me half the time we were there?”
Dana replied ruefully “I do indeed, Homey. It was a dark and terrible time.”
“And now they want to play with our chromosomes? Are they high? What happens when all these guys start comin’ up with all kinds of freaky diseases; goin’ back home and makin’ babies with two heads? What then?”
“Beats me. I just know that I got ripped a new one a couple of days ago for saying “too much” about it. I was supposed to let you know that this info is on the low. I forgot. My bad.”
“No problem. Thanks, man. Good lookin’ out. But why would they do that, though?” Chad wondered.
“Who knows? There might be some money in it somewhere.”
The two patriotic young Americans-barely old enough to legally drink-were truly mystified: This was significant, large, too huge to consider-for the time being-in all of its myriad implications and potential ramifications.
So they didn’t.
“Jesus.”
“Yep.”
Dana broke the heavy silence that ensued, “Hey, Homey, how we doin’ on the fly-stuff your Mama sent. I do swear that that woman is “all that” and a piece of buttered toast.”
Chad smiled, “Yeah, she’s cool. We’re good. What’s up?”
“Man, I got us two-yes, two-cartons of smokes for a bottle. That stuff is worth its weight in gold, Dog.”
“Sweet! Good smokes, right?”
“You know it. So I’m off to the bazaar. I’m kickin’ it with Country and his people. Get yourself an MRE and let’s roll-they’re makin a fire. Bring your hot sauce.”
“Cool. Wait. I was gonna eyeball that compound one more time, just in case. I was only there for a second. Did you see anything?”
“Nothin’ good.” Dana’s face darkened, “Nothin’ but folks livin’ in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s all kinds of tore up in there, Dog.”
“Thanks, man. I’m cool. See ya in a minute.”
“Airborne.”
The dust in the shattered compound had settled, but the smoke had not yet cleared. The horrible smell remained. Dana had been right: there was nothing for them here. Who had done this? “Them”? Or “Us”? It mattered not a jot to the dead.
The angle of the sun was different as well: that’s probably why Chad found the little girl buried in rubble that the others had missed. The light made her eyes sparkle amidst the debris.
She was silent as he gently removed the heavy, jagged stones and brick from her tiny body. Her beautiful little face was remarkably untouched-this had given him a bit of hope, hope that was crushed when he saw her broken, bloody little torso.
She was beyond repair, and his heart was broken. A medic wasn’t going to fix this; a teleporter to Johns Hopkins wouldn’t have fixed this. He should have known from her eyes: crystal-clear, alert-yet somehow, distant. He had seen it before, a final kindness.
No pain.
She was four, maybe five. He hoped she didn’t understand what was happening, what had been taken from her. He wasn’t going to let this happen to her in loneliness and fear. She was probably cold.
He removed his gloves and gingerly cradled her.
She regarded him with a child’s frank inquisitiveness and curiosity. Her eyes were bright. She touched his face and managed a wan smile.
And she was gone.
Unbearable pain.
And sadness.
Then, a final kindness.
He felt nothing.
He was glad to be away from what had been a walled family compound, if only for the few minutes it would take to complete the radio-check, give a status report, and await any news or orders from Command.
Now unconsciously ever-vigilant, Chad was “relaxed” as he strode towards the Hummer, various sub-programs deep in the foundation of his mind furiously processing, continuously assessing any and every motion of any object or shadow; any change in sound or sounds; any “feeling” of imminent danger. It had been the business of his long-ago vanished, ancient ancestors to survive in dark forests and vast savannahs filled with creatures that were much stronger and faster than they were. Creatures that wanted to kill and eat them.
These ancestors had bequeathed to him a set of instincts that-though long dormant-were now thrivingly alert: he was totally aware of his surroundings, and his body would be prepared to either fight to the death, or flee like the wind to preserve his life if the need arose.
And there were things out there that wanted to kill him. This was a matter of fact.
He reached their Hummer. The appointed time arrived, and he completed the radio check: it still worked, HQ was still there, and they knew that he was still alive. There was nothing to do now but wait for word from The Great and Powerful Oz (the Colonel-or actually, an NCO who spoke for Him). Chad broke out his metal canteen cup, rooted around in his ruck for the jar of instant coffee, some packets of non-dairy creamer, and some sugar. He blew the sand and dust from the cup and mixed a healthy dollop of coffee with the rest to kill the bitterness. He poured half of it into his mouth and began to chew. He followed up with a quart of water and repeated. The adrenalin from the last several hours was wearing off, and he knew neither how long he had been awake, nor when he would sleep again. Thus, the jolt.
Chad eased himself into the Hummer to escape the direct rays of the sun, pulled his weapon in behind him, and lit a smoke. He removed his helmet and began to stare into the bright blue canopy which vaulted far above the sadness below it. He regarded the sky and considered that there were billions of people under that same sky who were living “real life” in a world that was becoming less and less comprehensible to him with each and every passing day. In that world, life didn’t seem to include the ever-present reality that death could sweep in out of nowhere at any time for anyone. A delusion. If he made it home, he wondered what it would be like now that he knew, understood the ephemeral, fragile, unpromised nature of life.
But he wanted to go home, to that dream world. But when and if he ever saw home again was totally and absolutely out of his control: a large swath of Southwest Asia; the continent of Africa (or Europe); and a vast ocean separated him from it, and only the powers-that-be could return him. And only when they saw fit: he was already past his ETS, the date upon which he should have been already honorably discharged from the army and sent home.
Were he to let all of this truly sink in, it would have driven him insane. So, he didn’t.
He quickly sought another topic of internal discussion and found one.
Something safe, eternal, non-temporal:
Why was it first, the first one? The others seemed to be so well-grounded in nuts-and-bolts common sense: “Listen to your Mom and Dad”- Chad was finding out all the time how important this one was. Much grief would have been avoided had he heeded it more consistently. “Don’t go around murderin’ folks”-speaks for itself; “no stealin’, thievin’”; “no spreadin’ rumors, lies”; “Keep your mind and your mitts off of your neighbor’s stuff-especially his wife”; and, if you are married, “don’t cheat”. These all made good sense, and had they been adhered to by far more people, the world would have been a much better place.
So, why was “you shall have no other gods before me” first? Narcissism? He was, after all, God Almighty, so…why not? Who had a better claim, or more of a right to some self-absorption than He did? Right? Or did it “just happen” to be first?
Or was it a warning? A profoundly important and dire warning. Like Mom’s constant and, ultimately, unheeded warnings against playing with fire when he had been a little child. And as painful as the mild burns on his little fingers had been, the consequences were-thank God-nowhere near as catastrophic as they might have been.
He had discovered for himself the painful consequences of disobeying commands of hers the nature of which he could not grasp, could not understand.
Her warnings had been all about love and protecting her child.
Chad pulled a peanut butter granola bar-his favorite (sent to him by The Cool and Wonderful Mom)-from his cargo pocket and began to munch. He retrieved a cardboard-backed, plastic-encased issue of Playboy from his ruck. He considered Miss March. She was beautiful. Gentle and kind. Thoughtful and caring, with a wry sense of humor. Her wonderful parents had carefully and lovingly attended to all of her physical, emotional, and spiritual needs: her’s was the countenance of a girl who was at peace with herself, with the world. And that world was a sane and well-ordered world. She enjoyed fine art, staying healthy and fit, cooking, and metaphysical inquiry: their conversations might last for hours. And she adored children, volunteering regularly at a nursery school in the village.
And he was returning to her, glad to be alive, the sleek, late-model Mercedes convertible gliding upon the wonderfully smooth, flawless road home; the warm, fragrant summer air a blessing as he moved through the beautifully-wooded hills. Work had been good. Another wonderful week of doing important and valuable things, things that people needed done, things that made their lives better. It had been challenging, fun, and, at times, difficult, but had nothing-nothing at all-to do with hurting anyone, killing anyone.
The woods gave way to a clearing filled with flowers, gardens she had assiduously cultivated. She was there, waiting for him in the door of their brightly painted Victorian home, surrounded by the gardens and towering, stately trees.
He gave to her flowers that he gladly brought to her every day. And she gladly accepted them as she always did.
And they were happy.
The wondrously beautiful composition of divinely-animated stardust embraced and kissed him, her mere existence proof that life was more than the aggregation of tragedies that it so often seemed to be.
She took his hand as they entered their home, captivating him with the mellifluous tones emanating from her lovely throat as she began to tell him of her day. Soft, golden light cascaded into the home she had so richly and tastefully decorated; the delicious aromas of some of his favorites wafted from the kitchen; and the beer that she handed to him was ice cold.
Chad was basking in the pleasure of being alive when a shadow suddenly appeared and quickly overtook this carefully and lovingly constructed world, extinguishing it.
It collapsed in upon itself and receded into the recesses of his mind.
“Hey, Preacher.” It was Chad’s Ace Boon, Dana.
“Hey, Elvis.” Though Dana was known by many of his loyal fans and supporters (and a few jealous detractors) only as Elvis, Chad only called him that when he was mildly annoyed with him.
Dana bore no remarkable physical similarity to The King-he was very blond with green eyes-but he hailed from the same neck of the Tennessee woods, had the same twang, and-probably most importantly-all the girls seemed to lose their minds in his presence.
Likewise, Chad was known to many as The Preacher only in small part due to his substantial ecclesiastical knowledge: he was not much of a proselytizer, but his grandfather was an ordained Baptist minister. It had been Dana who had let that cat out of the bag some time ago when, after Chad had graciously declined to partake of the delights of Victory Drive down at Fort Benning, the guys had ribbed him mercilessly. Dana explained that it was a matter of religious scruple.
Of course, Chad was glad to have them think him a tower of unflappable moral rectitude rather than have them know that he was just plain too shy: he would have been perfectly happy just to have held a girl for a while, kissed her, maybe. “One last time”-just in case-before his very first jump at jump school. The thought of his chute not opening had seriously crossed his mind: he had been scared, but all of the men in the Army he admired had wings on their chests, and his admiration of their fearlessness and various other attributes compelled him to emulate them.
Dana set his weapon down, leaning it against the Hummer. “Any news from The Wizard?”
“Nope. All is quiet on the western front.”
Dana laughed, “Don’t go jinxin’ us, Homey. Hey! You’ll never guess who I found out’s here!”
“Who?”
“Country!”
“”Country”…”Country”?! Carver?! From Basic?!”
“Yeah, man. Alive and well. Even got ‘em some stripes. Been at Bragg all this time.”
“Really? Bragg?”
“Yep. Don’t you remember? 11 Bang-Bang, Airborne Infantry. He’s been there longer than we have.” Their military intelligence and language training had been considerably longer than Country’s infantry school.
Chad smiled with genuine affection: Country had been a hoot, always laughing, cracking everybody up with his razor-sharp wit, with the Drill Sergeants always at him, vociferously casting doubt upon the authenticity of his G.E.D.:
“You ain’t got no G.E.D.!!! You too damn country to have a G.E.D.!!! Who you tryin’ to fool?!! You can’t even spell “G.E.D.”!!!”
Actually, Country was extremely intelligent, and could have done anything with a proper education, but the Worthies of a bygone era knew that it would have been extremely bad for business (mind-bogglingly lucrative business) if children who looked like him were ever educated. So they weren’t. And the tradition had lived on.
“So what’s he up to?”
“Same as us. Just in an “eleven bang-bang” kinda’ way: “fightin’ to keep our country free”.
They both laughed.
“I mean where’s he at right now?” Chad asked.
“Down yonder, by those humvees.” He was pointing at a cluster of vehicles a couple of hundred meters away. He lit himself a smoke. “He had some kinda’ formation to go to.”
“A formation? Out here? What for?” Chad was surprised: his and Dana’s outfit didn’t do a lot of the formation thing.
“To take those pills.”
“Pills? What pills?”
“You know. Homey, that stuff that’s supposed to “bond with our DNA at the chromosomal level” or some such crap, to block the chemical and nerve agents.”
Chad was incredulous. “What?! They put them in formation to take that stuff? Why? It’s voluntary.”
“For us it is. And get this; they think it’s all approved and safe.”
“Who told them that?”
“The Powers-That-Be.”
“Dude, they can’t get our pay straight-remember how they thought you were in Germany for the first six months we were at DLI, and you had to mooch off me half the time we were there?”
Dana replied ruefully “I do indeed, Homey. It was a dark and terrible time.”
“And now they want to play with our chromosomes? Are they high? What happens when all these guys start comin’ up with all kinds of freaky diseases; goin’ back home and makin’ babies with two heads? What then?”
“Beats me. I just know that I got ripped a new one a couple of days ago for saying “too much” about it. I was supposed to let you know that this info is on the low. I forgot. My bad.”
“No problem. Thanks, man. Good lookin’ out. But why would they do that, though?” Chad wondered.
“Who knows? There might be some money in it somewhere.”
The two patriotic young Americans-barely old enough to legally drink-were truly mystified: This was significant, large, too huge to consider-for the time being-in all of its myriad implications and potential ramifications.
So they didn’t.
“Jesus.”
“Yep.”
Dana broke the heavy silence that ensued, “Hey, Homey, how we doin’ on the fly-stuff your Mama sent. I do swear that that woman is “all that” and a piece of buttered toast.”
Chad smiled, “Yeah, she’s cool. We’re good. What’s up?”
“Man, I got us two-yes, two-cartons of smokes for a bottle. That stuff is worth its weight in gold, Dog.”
“Sweet! Good smokes, right?”
“You know it. So I’m off to the bazaar. I’m kickin’ it with Country and his people. Get yourself an MRE and let’s roll-they’re makin a fire. Bring your hot sauce.”
“Cool. Wait. I was gonna eyeball that compound one more time, just in case. I was only there for a second. Did you see anything?”
“Nothin’ good.” Dana’s face darkened, “Nothin’ but folks livin’ in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s all kinds of tore up in there, Dog.”
“Thanks, man. I’m cool. See ya in a minute.”
“Airborne.”
The dust in the shattered compound had settled, but the smoke had not yet cleared. The horrible smell remained. Dana had been right: there was nothing for them here. Who had done this? “Them”? Or “Us”? It mattered not a jot to the dead.
The angle of the sun was different as well: that’s probably why Chad found the little girl buried in rubble that the others had missed. The light made her eyes sparkle amidst the debris.
She was silent as he gently removed the heavy, jagged stones and brick from her tiny body. Her beautiful little face was remarkably untouched-this had given him a bit of hope, hope that was crushed when he saw her broken, bloody little torso.
She was beyond repair, and his heart was broken. A medic wasn’t going to fix this; a teleporter to Johns Hopkins wouldn’t have fixed this. He should have known from her eyes: crystal-clear, alert-yet somehow, distant. He had seen it before, a final kindness.
No pain.
She was four, maybe five. He hoped she didn’t understand what was happening, what had been taken from her. He wasn’t going to let this happen to her in loneliness and fear. She was probably cold.
He removed his gloves and gingerly cradled her.
She regarded him with a child’s frank inquisitiveness and curiosity. Her eyes were bright. She touched his face and managed a wan smile.
And she was gone.
Unbearable pain.
And sadness.
Then, a final kindness.
He felt nothing.
Friday, May 29, 2009
THE SLEEPING GIANT, And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were born unto them, that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took wives of all which they chose.
There were giants in the earth in those days; when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown.
Genesis 6:1, 2, 4
He stared into the bright canopy.
He had not been strong enough to return to his place.
He was in the glen before the woods and before the mountain.
He roused himself and pulled what barbs and arrows from his flesh that he could. He tasted one, it was poisoned. He regarded the blood-soaked grass and did not want to consider why the fragile creatures would have made him flee, why they detested him.
He pulled himself to his knees and he regarded his wounds. He willed them away.
He looked to the mountain and willed himself away. His shining black wings unfurled and he was released of the bonds of gravity.
He strode to the water and drank. He gathered leaves and grass to make a bed upon which he could rest. He layed himself down to forget, to sleep, to rest.
He was of them and from them, and yes, they despised him.
He closed his eyes to be away from them.
They had not yet done with him: they had come for him. They had thought themselves crafty in stealing upon him in his sleep.
They broke his heart.
He took them up into his hands and tossed them away from him. He was imperfect, and awaking him was a mistake that he regretted them having made. They were surrounding him, and he ended them.
Tired and dreadful, he sent them away, over the mountain.
He gathered his sword, dragged it behind him. He soared towards the Star and, then, hurtled towards the valley. To bury them.
He gathered the earth with his aching fingers and placed them, one by one, into it. He cursed them, wept over them, but this was pointless. He was alone in his sadness. He covered them such that the wolves would not eat them, the flesh of his mortal flesh.
He had to continue: there were so many more, and they had not yet tired of him.
The sword was so very, very heavy, so heavy, but there were others like him, like his father, a Bright One who had loved a mortal woman, but did not understand his half-mortal son.
So many of The Beautiful Ones hated him, for being what he was. The sword was for Them.
The mortals… He wished to not be so alone. But he was.
He would stare into the canopy and let the light blaze and reflect and refract into his mind. He would return this light into the village, into their plain, into their reality, so that he could rest, sleep. He would have to burn them all so that he could rest.
He wanted this to be over and done, so the comely woman who beckoned to him from the green grass annoyed him, but she was lovely, and he found her so.
She was abandoned, too, a witch, this is what they called her. They allowed her to birth their babies, to tend to their sick, but they would not love her, allow her to have love.
She had seen him and had known his mind. She beckoned to him to love him and give him love and to stop him from the terrible thing which he was going to do.
He circled high in the heavens and contemplated her. He descended to her and touched his feet upon the grass. She smiled at him, and knelt before the bright, fearsome angel, and asked him to do the same.
Bemused, he knelt. He made himself small, such that he could touch her, be with her. She was bold and fearless. She was bright.
His sinews and bones and flesh torqued and he fell to his knees and kept the pain from her, the agony from her.
She was there for him when he opened his eyes. She gave him water. She cleaned the wounds that he could not see. She gave him good things to eat, and let him not be lonely. She grasped him and rubbed her heavy breasts against him. She gave herself to him, he gave himself to her, all of the best of him, to the kind girl who would not tolerate his sadness.
The change was coming. He kissed her sweet face and wished.
He left so his growing frame would not destroy her home.
She had awakened and seen. She touched him, as his mother had touched another angel. She loved him. She was lonely, too.
She had given to him, and he would give to her. She knew that this was true.
“Take me there. Show me the sky, the mountain.”
He smiled at her.
The brightness and love and light that emanated from him was almost overwhelming: shockingly, terribly, blindingly beautiful, wondrously warm and golden.
She let it wash over her.
He lifted her to himself. His wings broadened, glossy, black, beautiful, and she fearlessly draped herself around his shoulders, and he ascended with her, to the mountain, to their home.
There were giants in the earth in those days; when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown.
Genesis 6:1, 2, 4
He stared into the bright canopy.
He had not been strong enough to return to his place.
He was in the glen before the woods and before the mountain.
He roused himself and pulled what barbs and arrows from his flesh that he could. He tasted one, it was poisoned. He regarded the blood-soaked grass and did not want to consider why the fragile creatures would have made him flee, why they detested him.
He pulled himself to his knees and he regarded his wounds. He willed them away.
He looked to the mountain and willed himself away. His shining black wings unfurled and he was released of the bonds of gravity.
He strode to the water and drank. He gathered leaves and grass to make a bed upon which he could rest. He layed himself down to forget, to sleep, to rest.
He was of them and from them, and yes, they despised him.
He closed his eyes to be away from them.
They had not yet done with him: they had come for him. They had thought themselves crafty in stealing upon him in his sleep.
They broke his heart.
He took them up into his hands and tossed them away from him. He was imperfect, and awaking him was a mistake that he regretted them having made. They were surrounding him, and he ended them.
Tired and dreadful, he sent them away, over the mountain.
He gathered his sword, dragged it behind him. He soared towards the Star and, then, hurtled towards the valley. To bury them.
He gathered the earth with his aching fingers and placed them, one by one, into it. He cursed them, wept over them, but this was pointless. He was alone in his sadness. He covered them such that the wolves would not eat them, the flesh of his mortal flesh.
He had to continue: there were so many more, and they had not yet tired of him.
The sword was so very, very heavy, so heavy, but there were others like him, like his father, a Bright One who had loved a mortal woman, but did not understand his half-mortal son.
So many of The Beautiful Ones hated him, for being what he was. The sword was for Them.
The mortals… He wished to not be so alone. But he was.
He would stare into the canopy and let the light blaze and reflect and refract into his mind. He would return this light into the village, into their plain, into their reality, so that he could rest, sleep. He would have to burn them all so that he could rest.
He wanted this to be over and done, so the comely woman who beckoned to him from the green grass annoyed him, but she was lovely, and he found her so.
She was abandoned, too, a witch, this is what they called her. They allowed her to birth their babies, to tend to their sick, but they would not love her, allow her to have love.
She had seen him and had known his mind. She beckoned to him to love him and give him love and to stop him from the terrible thing which he was going to do.
He circled high in the heavens and contemplated her. He descended to her and touched his feet upon the grass. She smiled at him, and knelt before the bright, fearsome angel, and asked him to do the same.
Bemused, he knelt. He made himself small, such that he could touch her, be with her. She was bold and fearless. She was bright.
His sinews and bones and flesh torqued and he fell to his knees and kept the pain from her, the agony from her.
She was there for him when he opened his eyes. She gave him water. She cleaned the wounds that he could not see. She gave him good things to eat, and let him not be lonely. She grasped him and rubbed her heavy breasts against him. She gave herself to him, he gave himself to her, all of the best of him, to the kind girl who would not tolerate his sadness.
The change was coming. He kissed her sweet face and wished.
He left so his growing frame would not destroy her home.
She had awakened and seen. She touched him, as his mother had touched another angel. She loved him. She was lonely, too.
She had given to him, and he would give to her. She knew that this was true.
“Take me there. Show me the sky, the mountain.”
He smiled at her.
The brightness and love and light that emanated from him was almost overwhelming: shockingly, terribly, blindingly beautiful, wondrously warm and golden.
She let it wash over her.
He lifted her to himself. His wings broadened, glossy, black, beautiful, and she fearlessly draped herself around his shoulders, and he ascended with her, to the mountain, to their home.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
BAD LAND, He looked at his friend and rolled his eyes. “Man, so you just gonna sit up in here, chow down, smack ya’ thin lips, and aint even goin to try to offer me some? Are you crazy? Gimme me some of that pizza, Motherfucker.”
“Fuck you, Nigger. I aint given you shit.” He gave his friend a bite of the slice.
It was hot. But it was always hot. It was always hot in the desert-except at night.
They finished their pizza.
“Okay. Let’s do this.”
His blond friend had an attitude-he leaned back against the Hummer and enjoyed another bite of a fresh slice: “Us? We? Man, I had to do it last time. It’s your turn…Slacker.”
“Me? This-from The King of All Slackers…Man, if slackin’ was oil, you’d be one of the richest motherfuckers on the planet.”
“Well, you know, Homey, I do indeed do what I can.”
“Dude, look. There’s a fucking ton of them. Let’s just do it. Let’s… just… get it over with. If you’re sittin here on your happy ass eatin pizza, we’ll be here all fuckin day. Do you want that? In this heat?”
They discussed their task. Better off using the M-16s from a distance, as opposed to their sidearms. They were both experts. They were only 400 yards away from the objects: it was easy.
Ensuring the change from object to product was crucial.
Neither of them wanted to go home in a bag.
Head shots. Clean. It was tiresome.
But they had been trained for this.
They had to concentrate.
Three of the objects exploded, had been rigged. It had been wise to blow them away from a distance.
“Are you sure we got em all?”
“Yeah.”
“Roger Dodger. Let’s finish this.”
They walked into the still-flaming, smoldering hell that the fast-movers and the Apaches they called in had created.
They had to check for intelligence on all of the product. One by one. This sucked.
That’s why they had to make sure that all of the product was actually product. That’s why they had had to shoot them all. They couldn’t go back to the Colonel empty-handed. He would have been mad at them, both of them. He would be angry with them. They knew that He had to answer to The General, who was even worse-that’s why they always made sure to produce tangible evidence of their various expeditions.
They actually liked the Big Six, but He knew how to put the hammer down. And neither of the bright young men was in any way, shape, or form mistaken about their take on reality as they perceived it regarding their particular chain of command.
Results were required.
Dana and Chad had been friends since Basic, Defense Language Institute, Military Intelligence land, jump-school at Benning , Bragg-everything. They were brothers.
“Dog, you get anything?”
“Airborne. You?”
“Airborne.”
“Cool.”
The two boys looked at their sand and soot-covered bloody hands.
They situated themselves and their gear into the Hummer.
“Dude, do you still have some of that fly stuff your Ma sent you? These flies are fuckin killin me.”
“All kinds of it. No problem, Homey. Hey, do you still have some of that peanut butter your Mom sent you?”
“Tons. But I don’t know about the crackers.”
“I’ve got some, I think, or Murph has some.”
“Cool. Airborne.”
“Alright. Let’s get the fuck outta here and talk about chicks.”
“Airborne.”
“Fuck you, Nigger. I aint given you shit.” He gave his friend a bite of the slice.
It was hot. But it was always hot. It was always hot in the desert-except at night.
They finished their pizza.
“Okay. Let’s do this.”
His blond friend had an attitude-he leaned back against the Hummer and enjoyed another bite of a fresh slice: “Us? We? Man, I had to do it last time. It’s your turn…Slacker.”
“Me? This-from The King of All Slackers…Man, if slackin’ was oil, you’d be one of the richest motherfuckers on the planet.”
“Well, you know, Homey, I do indeed do what I can.”
“Dude, look. There’s a fucking ton of them. Let’s just do it. Let’s… just… get it over with. If you’re sittin here on your happy ass eatin pizza, we’ll be here all fuckin day. Do you want that? In this heat?”
They discussed their task. Better off using the M-16s from a distance, as opposed to their sidearms. They were both experts. They were only 400 yards away from the objects: it was easy.
Ensuring the change from object to product was crucial.
Neither of them wanted to go home in a bag.
Head shots. Clean. It was tiresome.
But they had been trained for this.
They had to concentrate.
Three of the objects exploded, had been rigged. It had been wise to blow them away from a distance.
“Are you sure we got em all?”
“Yeah.”
“Roger Dodger. Let’s finish this.”
They walked into the still-flaming, smoldering hell that the fast-movers and the Apaches they called in had created.
They had to check for intelligence on all of the product. One by one. This sucked.
That’s why they had to make sure that all of the product was actually product. That’s why they had had to shoot them all. They couldn’t go back to the Colonel empty-handed. He would have been mad at them, both of them. He would be angry with them. They knew that He had to answer to The General, who was even worse-that’s why they always made sure to produce tangible evidence of their various expeditions.
They actually liked the Big Six, but He knew how to put the hammer down. And neither of the bright young men was in any way, shape, or form mistaken about their take on reality as they perceived it regarding their particular chain of command.
Results were required.
Dana and Chad had been friends since Basic, Defense Language Institute, Military Intelligence land, jump-school at Benning , Bragg-everything. They were brothers.
“Dog, you get anything?”
“Airborne. You?”
“Airborne.”
“Cool.”
The two boys looked at their sand and soot-covered bloody hands.
They situated themselves and their gear into the Hummer.
“Dude, do you still have some of that fly stuff your Ma sent you? These flies are fuckin killin me.”
“All kinds of it. No problem, Homey. Hey, do you still have some of that peanut butter your Mom sent you?”
“Tons. But I don’t know about the crackers.”
“I’ve got some, I think, or Murph has some.”
“Cool. Airborne.”
“Alright. Let’s get the fuck outta here and talk about chicks.”
“Airborne.”
COMPASSION,The delicate creature found it difficult to evade the pain and crushing pressure of the loss of all of her kin, all of her folk. Everyone. Her mother, her father, her sister, her darling, tiny little baby brothers.
Everyone, each and every one of them, everyone, everything that she had ever loved, everything for which she had ever cared for was gone. Irretrievably gone. Forever.
This new place was so different, though similar enough. Her father had managed to save her from the Enslavers: she was one of the few lucky ones.
Freya tried, day in and day out, but could not, would never forget the sonic scream, the wail of anguish emanating from her mother, the scream that would have destroyed the ability of these creatures to hear anything, the scream of pain that would have shattered their minds.
It was the day she left the world for the Other Place.
These folk, the folk to whom she had been sent, were totally bound by the gravity of their world. They lived and kissed and loved high in the rarefied atmosphere of the highest plateaus of their world. Her parents had explained to her the importance of pretending to be like them.
This walking, in and of itself, was terribly difficult. None of them traveled in a normal fashion. She had seen the beautiful mountains, the deep valleys, the wonders of their world that they themselves had not seen-in their own place, in their own world.
They did not live, incredibly, in the normal world. For some reason, whatever reason, long ago, they had chosen to abandon what they called the Sea, the Sea which surrounded them, from which they had come.
She would never understand this. But here, on this world, she was free.
Freya ran her beiged, lacquered fingernails over the surfaces. Her modest heels clicked and clacked on the marble floors of her home.
She looked, she saw, she discerned.
There was not a dab of dust. Her footsteps echoed in the brilliantly appointed home. She loved her Helpers: they were so sweet, kind, so focused in this task of maintaining her home in the fashion that was so important to her Preston. Her Darling had never said this to her, but it was clear in his mind that this mattered greatly to him, so it mattered to her.
These creatures, so similar, yet so different, with whom she had melded, did not speak into each other’s minds. They almost always used their voices to speak. She felt sorry for them. They could speak, in a fashion, but they did not hear, they did not see each other.
Despite this affliction, her father had been incredibly wise in sending her to this place. Even the Enslavers, the Evil Ones, even they would never search for her here, would never follow her to this place: the creatures of this place were capable of a casual cruelty and compassionlessness that was truly incomprehensible. This was well known. These fierce creatures were feared.
Her father had hidden his beloved daughter in the den of lions.
Freya glossed over the minds of her family: all was good. She smiled and went to finish the task of preparing the foods that her Darling loved. She loved Mama Beth for having showed her how to do this.
“Like this, Ma Bey?”
“Yes, baby, it’s going to be beautiful.”
Elizabeth regarded the golden-locked child and could not help but love her. The five-year old was so good with her little fingers. She and her older sister took to embroidery like fish to water.
She was so glad that the curse that she had laid upon her son had gone unanswered. Her two granddaughters-even her two grandsons-were the most sweetly dispositioned children she had ever known. Preston had been a mess.
“I hope you have children like you one day.”
The curse, thank God, had not worked. Somehow, she knew, she knew that she had her sweet little Freya to thank for this.
The two little ones knitted away, their bright shining smiles and laughter windows into their sweet souls. Elizabeth beamed.
Elizabeth was of a sweet soul.
Part of this kindness lived in the heart of her Preston.
As Freya wandered through her home, as she assured herself that all was good, she also minded her precious ones. Her little girls-yes, they were fine-they were enjoying their time with their grandmother. Her little ones were enjoying the love that gently washed over them: Mama Beth was teaching them something. Freya smiled.
The boys-were they behaving? She searched and found their minds-they were behaving. They were on a green field with their father’s father. They were playing this game called golf. They enjoyed his presence, and he loved teaching them, being with them.
Freya desperately missed her own two brothers. She had never understood boys: they all seemed to be so full of mischief, so crazy, silly. But they grew to be tall, beautiful and strong. They became protectors, protectors of those who had guarded their hearths and given them good things to eat when they had been small and weak.
Preston’s father looked on as his elder grandson swung his club. The boy had potential, but his already broad shoulders and strong frame suggested to him that he should stick to the swimming. He and his brother were both phenomenal swimmers. However, the genteel gentleman wanted to spend his precious time with his progeny doing what he enjoyed-golfing.
These boys were good, totally unlike their father at his age. They were not the little demons that he had feared his son would produce.
This retiree, a man of significant wealth knew, had a sense of people that many others did not have: his grandsons were indulging him. They wanted to be at the beach, in the ocean, but they loved him, and they pretended to enjoy this thing which could have not bored them more.
These boys were kind and caring, not cold and brooding in the manner which he had expected. He was glad to see his pretty wife’s face, and his own, in theirs.
The Senior had been seriously concerned about the skinny, bosomy blonde that his daughter had brought into his home: she was comely and his son was the charmer. Why-of all people-had his little activist brought this creature into their life?
He had not slaved and struggled to give it all back to Them.
This child, however, was truly kind and sweet. He recognized, over time, that she could not be blamed for what she was. This would have been unfair, and truly unkind.
His son began to show up at work on time. His mind had become focused upon a future-yes, a future including Freya, but a future nonetheless.
Freya’s Preston was soon to come home, he was only two hours away. That was what was in his mind. It was always easy to find him: he thought of her constantly.
She had time to step into the pool in the wooded glen behind their home. This simple pleasure was a delight she would never be able to explain to these folk, to anyone here. Not even her own children. Not yet, not for the time being. She was so lonely, but her Preston was coming.
Her little ones, her poor babies. She had not been able to let them out of her sight, anyone of them, for the first two years of each of their lives.
They could not be bathed by another, washed by another, taken to a body of water outside of her presence. The result would have been catastrophic.
One day, one beautiful day, she would shine into their bright minds the vast, never-ending seas of her world, their world. She would explain to her babies what they were, who they were.
This star, the star they called the Sun was so warm. It warmed the water, this pool. Freya eased her frame into it.
She breathed in peace, relieved, if only for a few moments, of so many bonds. Her little ones understood, finally, though not completely, that they were different. Her cycle was complete, her four were born, and they were safe here. They had some, some understanding.
She relaxed her mind as she floated to the middle of the pool.
She opened her golden eyes and dreamt of the world which she would never see again.
The thread-like tendrils, the threads that brought to her that which was necessary to breathe began to emerge from her mouth and nose. These oxygen-giving threads began to mesh with the long blonde locks adorning her shoulders.
Freya floated and stared and dreamt. She smiled as the warm water caressed her nude frame. Her mind did wander. Her new sister, her dear sister of this world was coming to her home to visit with her and her Preston. Kayla was moving rapidly over the high plateau in what was called a vehicle, a car.
She had met her Darling through her new sister. It had been on a campus in Los Angeles. Kayla had fallen and scraped her knee. The fried potatoes from her red box were scattered all about her. It was unbelievable: people stepped over and around the beautiful brown girl.
Freya put out her hand and smiled at the pretty brown girl in the bright purple dress. The mind of this creature was filled with-what? Freya offered her the fried potatoes from her red and yellow box.
“Here, yours are spilled. Please, take some of mine.”
Kayla regarded the apparently kind girl, and within a billionth of a moment felt the kindness. She smiled and took her hand.
“You’re not from around here, are you? What, Sweden?”
The two spent the afternoon wandering through the beautiful green fields of the campus. They became fast friends.
Over time, Kayla explained to her friend the terrors endured by her ancestors: the horror of enslavement; the requisite cruelty and evil that necessitated it; the requisite cruelty that it created in so many of its victims. Freya wept. This was so similar to the world that she loved but had escaped: they were so different here, but the same.
Kayla thought-despite her inclinations-that this kind creature might save her brother: Smoothy would not casually step into these panties.
He might recognize her beauty, he might change for her. He might, through her, become the man that he could become.
Freya turned, floating gently. Her Preston was on the plateau, the plateau they called America, at the LAX. It was a question that she had considered over and over again and then some: why did they choose to live in this rarefied atmosphere and then turn around and bend their minds to create machines that would move them from plateau to plateau? It was so sad that they had not chosen to live and love in the paradise that surrounded them beneath these plateaus.
Those that cannot speak, for the most part, do not hear-at least not very well. They tend not to understand the importance of speech, what it is. Her Preston’s thoughts of her were poignant and sweet: in this she was glad her Darling could not hide his thoughts from her. He loved everything about her: the wonderful things she did for him…that she loved him.
“I’d die for you.”
He would smile at her and this thought would leap from his mind. At first, Freya would blanch: she was appalled at the casual linkage between love and death in his mind. These creatures were obsessed with death and dying and killing.
Over time, Freya realized, understood, that on this cruel world there was no greater love.
And he had never even told her, feeling her to delicate, told her that he would lay down his life for her. But she loved him for the knowing, she was glad she could look into his mind and see what he was.
This carpenter, this ghost that haunted her Preston’s thoughts had said that love was not to be proclaimed like these Pharisees do (who were they? She had never seen a Pharisee), but to be kept inside. This was why her Darling so rarely spoke of the shining love for her that he could barely contain within himself. He was afraid that this delicate, fragile, beautiful thing would be somehow damaged if he spoke of it too often. Poor Thing: it was so much more strong than he understood.
But, this carpenter had had a powerful effect on her Darling, and Freya was glad that Pres had met him.
Freya stared into the bright blue canopy and breathed deeply in the atmosphere in which she floated. She was going away from this place, if only for a few short moments, to be with her mother, father, her sister, her little brothers. She sighed a sigh of relief and relaxed totally. She then rested upon the bottom of the pool, her golden eyes fixed on the bright blue canopy of the southern California sky.
The traffic in SoCal is so unpredictable: Pres would be home much sooner than he had thought. It was so good to be going home, going to his Sweetheart.
Sometimes, he wondered if she understood how much he loved her, what she meant to him. He hated having been away from her for so long. It had been six days in China, but this account was going to secure not only their futures, but the futures of their great-grandchildren.
“Thanks, Jim.”
“I’ll take those, sir.”
“No, that’s alright. Only exercise I get these days. But thank you, though.” He smiled and gave the driver of the well-appointed limousine a handsome tip.
His heavy black bags hung from his broad shoulders. He opened the door and cried for his Freya.
She was not at the door as she usually was. The foyer was filled with the fragrances of simmering fried corn, greens, black-eyed peas. He followed his nose to the kitchen. There was a bowl of prepared cornmeal and flour, salt, all the other ingredients ready for the hot-water cornbread. But Freya was not there.
He had no idea what he had done to deserve her. She was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to him, for him. She was so sweet and kind. She always knew, always, what he needed, desired. It was as if she could read his mind.
He had achieved so much-for her, to be with her.
He had his pride, but he was no fool: he had changed so he could be with her, forever.
He met her eighteen years ago.
“No. You must love me first.” She then laughed and tweaked his nose.
Kayla had been right about him: he was more than the obvious horror contained in his lovely frame. There was goodness and kindness as well.
Where was she? Her cars were parked in the drive way, he had checked every room of the house. The kids were with Mom and Dad, but there was a feast simmering on the stove. Where was she?
On the third landing of their home, in his dawning panic, he glanced out the window.
He saw her.
His Darling was at the bottom of the pool.
She was floating, her eyes wide open, near the very bottom of the pool. The pool that she had gently insisted that he have created for her. He stared for a moment. He then turned and rushed down the stairs.
The six-foot antique mirror on the second landing exploded when the shoulder of the former running-back slammed into it. There was no time to worry about the damage and the pain and the blood. He flowed down the stairs and unthinkingly melted through the latticed glass doors, unaware of the damage to the face and hands.
She was there, standing there on the green lawn. She was staring at him as he rushed towards her. Staring at him. What had he seen? Had The Catastrophe occurred? Had it?
She moved her nude, fawn-like frame towards him, towards her Mate and Love as he approached her. Her smile and nudity should have beguiled him, but it did not.
The Catastrophe had occurred.
She saw the ugliness of the fear and revulsion: he had seen what she was.
In her Darling’s mind were horrible images: What have I been sleeping with? What have I loved? What is this …this thing. The mother of my children. My God. My children. What have I done?
All she had wanted was to dream of home.
This change of total love for her to horror in her Darling’s mind was too much, simply too much. After so much loss. Now this loss. It was too much.
She crumpled to the ground and the necessary fluid, the water, began to bleed from her eyes. She cried away the water, the fluid that she needed to live.
Pres, still in a state of shock, regarded the beautiful creature. She was going to die. He sensed this.
Freya forcefully, powerfully, using her last strength, spoke into her Darling’s mind: “Please, Pres, please love them. They are your babies, too. Please do not blame them for what they are. “
He heard this. Sensed this. He realized that she really was going to die. She was different. There was no time to consider any of this. He loved her.
He gently fetched her up and carried her back to the water. He carefully stepped into the pool and immersed her, submerged her. And he prayed.
He watched as threads began to come from his Darling’s mouth, nose. He watched as her bosom began to move. She was breathing.
He began to breathe.
Her golden eyes opened.
The tendrils eased into her. She released herself from her darling’s arms. She stood. He knew. But he still loved her.
She draped her arms around him, sensing nothing but love.
“Darling, you’re hurt, you’re bleeding” She was frightened by the glass and blood all over him. She began to pull the shards out of him. She was so worried about him while he cared about nothing but her.
He smiled. He lifted her and carried her into their home. She knew why he was doing this: there was glass everywhere, and he didn’t want her to be hurt. She knew his mind. She could see into his mind. She knew that he knew this. He loved her, nonetheless. She loved him all the more.
She had come to a good place.
Everyone, each and every one of them, everyone, everything that she had ever loved, everything for which she had ever cared for was gone. Irretrievably gone. Forever.
This new place was so different, though similar enough. Her father had managed to save her from the Enslavers: she was one of the few lucky ones.
Freya tried, day in and day out, but could not, would never forget the sonic scream, the wail of anguish emanating from her mother, the scream that would have destroyed the ability of these creatures to hear anything, the scream of pain that would have shattered their minds.
It was the day she left the world for the Other Place.
These folk, the folk to whom she had been sent, were totally bound by the gravity of their world. They lived and kissed and loved high in the rarefied atmosphere of the highest plateaus of their world. Her parents had explained to her the importance of pretending to be like them.
This walking, in and of itself, was terribly difficult. None of them traveled in a normal fashion. She had seen the beautiful mountains, the deep valleys, the wonders of their world that they themselves had not seen-in their own place, in their own world.
They did not live, incredibly, in the normal world. For some reason, whatever reason, long ago, they had chosen to abandon what they called the Sea, the Sea which surrounded them, from which they had come.
She would never understand this. But here, on this world, she was free.
Freya ran her beiged, lacquered fingernails over the surfaces. Her modest heels clicked and clacked on the marble floors of her home.
She looked, she saw, she discerned.
There was not a dab of dust. Her footsteps echoed in the brilliantly appointed home. She loved her Helpers: they were so sweet, kind, so focused in this task of maintaining her home in the fashion that was so important to her Preston. Her Darling had never said this to her, but it was clear in his mind that this mattered greatly to him, so it mattered to her.
These creatures, so similar, yet so different, with whom she had melded, did not speak into each other’s minds. They almost always used their voices to speak. She felt sorry for them. They could speak, in a fashion, but they did not hear, they did not see each other.
Despite this affliction, her father had been incredibly wise in sending her to this place. Even the Enslavers, the Evil Ones, even they would never search for her here, would never follow her to this place: the creatures of this place were capable of a casual cruelty and compassionlessness that was truly incomprehensible. This was well known. These fierce creatures were feared.
Her father had hidden his beloved daughter in the den of lions.
Freya glossed over the minds of her family: all was good. She smiled and went to finish the task of preparing the foods that her Darling loved. She loved Mama Beth for having showed her how to do this.
“Like this, Ma Bey?”
“Yes, baby, it’s going to be beautiful.”
Elizabeth regarded the golden-locked child and could not help but love her. The five-year old was so good with her little fingers. She and her older sister took to embroidery like fish to water.
She was so glad that the curse that she had laid upon her son had gone unanswered. Her two granddaughters-even her two grandsons-were the most sweetly dispositioned children she had ever known. Preston had been a mess.
“I hope you have children like you one day.”
The curse, thank God, had not worked. Somehow, she knew, she knew that she had her sweet little Freya to thank for this.
The two little ones knitted away, their bright shining smiles and laughter windows into their sweet souls. Elizabeth beamed.
Elizabeth was of a sweet soul.
Part of this kindness lived in the heart of her Preston.
As Freya wandered through her home, as she assured herself that all was good, she also minded her precious ones. Her little girls-yes, they were fine-they were enjoying their time with their grandmother. Her little ones were enjoying the love that gently washed over them: Mama Beth was teaching them something. Freya smiled.
The boys-were they behaving? She searched and found their minds-they were behaving. They were on a green field with their father’s father. They were playing this game called golf. They enjoyed his presence, and he loved teaching them, being with them.
Freya desperately missed her own two brothers. She had never understood boys: they all seemed to be so full of mischief, so crazy, silly. But they grew to be tall, beautiful and strong. They became protectors, protectors of those who had guarded their hearths and given them good things to eat when they had been small and weak.
Preston’s father looked on as his elder grandson swung his club. The boy had potential, but his already broad shoulders and strong frame suggested to him that he should stick to the swimming. He and his brother were both phenomenal swimmers. However, the genteel gentleman wanted to spend his precious time with his progeny doing what he enjoyed-golfing.
These boys were good, totally unlike their father at his age. They were not the little demons that he had feared his son would produce.
This retiree, a man of significant wealth knew, had a sense of people that many others did not have: his grandsons were indulging him. They wanted to be at the beach, in the ocean, but they loved him, and they pretended to enjoy this thing which could have not bored them more.
These boys were kind and caring, not cold and brooding in the manner which he had expected. He was glad to see his pretty wife’s face, and his own, in theirs.
The Senior had been seriously concerned about the skinny, bosomy blonde that his daughter had brought into his home: she was comely and his son was the charmer. Why-of all people-had his little activist brought this creature into their life?
He had not slaved and struggled to give it all back to Them.
This child, however, was truly kind and sweet. He recognized, over time, that she could not be blamed for what she was. This would have been unfair, and truly unkind.
His son began to show up at work on time. His mind had become focused upon a future-yes, a future including Freya, but a future nonetheless.
Freya’s Preston was soon to come home, he was only two hours away. That was what was in his mind. It was always easy to find him: he thought of her constantly.
She had time to step into the pool in the wooded glen behind their home. This simple pleasure was a delight she would never be able to explain to these folk, to anyone here. Not even her own children. Not yet, not for the time being. She was so lonely, but her Preston was coming.
Her little ones, her poor babies. She had not been able to let them out of her sight, anyone of them, for the first two years of each of their lives.
They could not be bathed by another, washed by another, taken to a body of water outside of her presence. The result would have been catastrophic.
One day, one beautiful day, she would shine into their bright minds the vast, never-ending seas of her world, their world. She would explain to her babies what they were, who they were.
This star, the star they called the Sun was so warm. It warmed the water, this pool. Freya eased her frame into it.
She breathed in peace, relieved, if only for a few moments, of so many bonds. Her little ones understood, finally, though not completely, that they were different. Her cycle was complete, her four were born, and they were safe here. They had some, some understanding.
She relaxed her mind as she floated to the middle of the pool.
She opened her golden eyes and dreamt of the world which she would never see again.
The thread-like tendrils, the threads that brought to her that which was necessary to breathe began to emerge from her mouth and nose. These oxygen-giving threads began to mesh with the long blonde locks adorning her shoulders.
Freya floated and stared and dreamt. She smiled as the warm water caressed her nude frame. Her mind did wander. Her new sister, her dear sister of this world was coming to her home to visit with her and her Preston. Kayla was moving rapidly over the high plateau in what was called a vehicle, a car.
She had met her Darling through her new sister. It had been on a campus in Los Angeles. Kayla had fallen and scraped her knee. The fried potatoes from her red box were scattered all about her. It was unbelievable: people stepped over and around the beautiful brown girl.
Freya put out her hand and smiled at the pretty brown girl in the bright purple dress. The mind of this creature was filled with-what? Freya offered her the fried potatoes from her red and yellow box.
“Here, yours are spilled. Please, take some of mine.”
Kayla regarded the apparently kind girl, and within a billionth of a moment felt the kindness. She smiled and took her hand.
“You’re not from around here, are you? What, Sweden?”
The two spent the afternoon wandering through the beautiful green fields of the campus. They became fast friends.
Over time, Kayla explained to her friend the terrors endured by her ancestors: the horror of enslavement; the requisite cruelty and evil that necessitated it; the requisite cruelty that it created in so many of its victims. Freya wept. This was so similar to the world that she loved but had escaped: they were so different here, but the same.
Kayla thought-despite her inclinations-that this kind creature might save her brother: Smoothy would not casually step into these panties.
He might recognize her beauty, he might change for her. He might, through her, become the man that he could become.
Freya turned, floating gently. Her Preston was on the plateau, the plateau they called America, at the LAX. It was a question that she had considered over and over again and then some: why did they choose to live in this rarefied atmosphere and then turn around and bend their minds to create machines that would move them from plateau to plateau? It was so sad that they had not chosen to live and love in the paradise that surrounded them beneath these plateaus.
Those that cannot speak, for the most part, do not hear-at least not very well. They tend not to understand the importance of speech, what it is. Her Preston’s thoughts of her were poignant and sweet: in this she was glad her Darling could not hide his thoughts from her. He loved everything about her: the wonderful things she did for him…that she loved him.
“I’d die for you.”
He would smile at her and this thought would leap from his mind. At first, Freya would blanch: she was appalled at the casual linkage between love and death in his mind. These creatures were obsessed with death and dying and killing.
Over time, Freya realized, understood, that on this cruel world there was no greater love.
And he had never even told her, feeling her to delicate, told her that he would lay down his life for her. But she loved him for the knowing, she was glad she could look into his mind and see what he was.
This carpenter, this ghost that haunted her Preston’s thoughts had said that love was not to be proclaimed like these Pharisees do (who were they? She had never seen a Pharisee), but to be kept inside. This was why her Darling so rarely spoke of the shining love for her that he could barely contain within himself. He was afraid that this delicate, fragile, beautiful thing would be somehow damaged if he spoke of it too often. Poor Thing: it was so much more strong than he understood.
But, this carpenter had had a powerful effect on her Darling, and Freya was glad that Pres had met him.
Freya stared into the bright blue canopy and breathed deeply in the atmosphere in which she floated. She was going away from this place, if only for a few short moments, to be with her mother, father, her sister, her little brothers. She sighed a sigh of relief and relaxed totally. She then rested upon the bottom of the pool, her golden eyes fixed on the bright blue canopy of the southern California sky.
The traffic in SoCal is so unpredictable: Pres would be home much sooner than he had thought. It was so good to be going home, going to his Sweetheart.
Sometimes, he wondered if she understood how much he loved her, what she meant to him. He hated having been away from her for so long. It had been six days in China, but this account was going to secure not only their futures, but the futures of their great-grandchildren.
“Thanks, Jim.”
“I’ll take those, sir.”
“No, that’s alright. Only exercise I get these days. But thank you, though.” He smiled and gave the driver of the well-appointed limousine a handsome tip.
His heavy black bags hung from his broad shoulders. He opened the door and cried for his Freya.
She was not at the door as she usually was. The foyer was filled with the fragrances of simmering fried corn, greens, black-eyed peas. He followed his nose to the kitchen. There was a bowl of prepared cornmeal and flour, salt, all the other ingredients ready for the hot-water cornbread. But Freya was not there.
He had no idea what he had done to deserve her. She was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to him, for him. She was so sweet and kind. She always knew, always, what he needed, desired. It was as if she could read his mind.
He had achieved so much-for her, to be with her.
He had his pride, but he was no fool: he had changed so he could be with her, forever.
He met her eighteen years ago.
“No. You must love me first.” She then laughed and tweaked his nose.
Kayla had been right about him: he was more than the obvious horror contained in his lovely frame. There was goodness and kindness as well.
Where was she? Her cars were parked in the drive way, he had checked every room of the house. The kids were with Mom and Dad, but there was a feast simmering on the stove. Where was she?
On the third landing of their home, in his dawning panic, he glanced out the window.
He saw her.
His Darling was at the bottom of the pool.
She was floating, her eyes wide open, near the very bottom of the pool. The pool that she had gently insisted that he have created for her. He stared for a moment. He then turned and rushed down the stairs.
The six-foot antique mirror on the second landing exploded when the shoulder of the former running-back slammed into it. There was no time to worry about the damage and the pain and the blood. He flowed down the stairs and unthinkingly melted through the latticed glass doors, unaware of the damage to the face and hands.
She was there, standing there on the green lawn. She was staring at him as he rushed towards her. Staring at him. What had he seen? Had The Catastrophe occurred? Had it?
She moved her nude, fawn-like frame towards him, towards her Mate and Love as he approached her. Her smile and nudity should have beguiled him, but it did not.
The Catastrophe had occurred.
She saw the ugliness of the fear and revulsion: he had seen what she was.
In her Darling’s mind were horrible images: What have I been sleeping with? What have I loved? What is this …this thing. The mother of my children. My God. My children. What have I done?
All she had wanted was to dream of home.
This change of total love for her to horror in her Darling’s mind was too much, simply too much. After so much loss. Now this loss. It was too much.
She crumpled to the ground and the necessary fluid, the water, began to bleed from her eyes. She cried away the water, the fluid that she needed to live.
Pres, still in a state of shock, regarded the beautiful creature. She was going to die. He sensed this.
Freya forcefully, powerfully, using her last strength, spoke into her Darling’s mind: “Please, Pres, please love them. They are your babies, too. Please do not blame them for what they are. “
He heard this. Sensed this. He realized that she really was going to die. She was different. There was no time to consider any of this. He loved her.
He gently fetched her up and carried her back to the water. He carefully stepped into the pool and immersed her, submerged her. And he prayed.
He watched as threads began to come from his Darling’s mouth, nose. He watched as her bosom began to move. She was breathing.
He began to breathe.
Her golden eyes opened.
The tendrils eased into her. She released herself from her darling’s arms. She stood. He knew. But he still loved her.
She draped her arms around him, sensing nothing but love.
“Darling, you’re hurt, you’re bleeding” She was frightened by the glass and blood all over him. She began to pull the shards out of him. She was so worried about him while he cared about nothing but her.
He smiled. He lifted her and carried her into their home. She knew why he was doing this: there was glass everywhere, and he didn’t want her to be hurt. She knew his mind. She could see into his mind. She knew that he knew this. He loved her, nonetheless. She loved him all the more.
She had come to a good place.
BRIGHTNESS IN DARKNESS, He was exasperated, and the heat didn’t help. He needed the required information from the object chained to the chair in his tidy little office/bedroom.
There was a reluctance to cooperate. He had promised the Big Six.
He stood and stepped outside of the room. He told the eager young man that he needed it to speak, ASAP-15 minutes, tops. But leave the eyes, throat, tongue, etc. intact: he had to talk to it. It was important.
The young man’s gaze was withering, bone-chillingly cold. He was unaware of this.
He put his hand on the young infantryman’s shoulder, “Clear?”
“Yessir. Clear.”
“Good.”
He went to another room and cleared his mind and composed his report-nothing written: he was a student of history and knew the potentially disastrous results of written documentation.
He had to have a tight, cogent report: the Colonel was an outstandingly bright man, much like Dad. The Colonel and Dad shared many similarities: the same age; while the one was receiving a diploma at West Point, the other was receiving his diploma at Princeton; the same focus, the same blinding stare, the same drive, the same mentality: he had learned as a small child that you had to-absolutely had to-perform to the expected and required standards of The Best and The Brightest.
The Colonel and Dad were remarkably similar. It was an interesting phenomenon, but something for another day.
You did not approach either man to waste his time, or you would be crushed.
He radioed the Big Six.
“What do you have, 2?”
“Confirmation of the launch sites, Sir. I’ll need fast-movers and gunships to block the passes.”
They changed frequencies. He continued.
“I don’t want any self-removal of product from the valley, Sir. I will need engineers for product disposal. I recommend…”
He was cut off, “Do it. You also have three batts of infantry to block those passes coming your way. When?”
“I need ten more minutes, Sir, for the rest.”
“Outstanding. Call it in when it’s time.”
“Will I have the Big Eye?”
“None here. You’ll have to coordinate on the ground.”
“Yessir.”
“Out, Airborne.”
The report had gone well. The Colonel had obviously been pleased.
He stood and opened the door to his office. He glanced at the object-still seeing and breathing, voice box intact. He dismissed his guard.
“Thank you.”
“Yessir.”
The young man sat down in his chair and produced false photos of two children and a woman, blindfolded. He began to speak in the other language.
“Just tell me what I need to know, and they will continue to receive the best food, shelter, read the precious book. If you can’t help me… well… I can’t really guarantee anything.”
The hatred from the object in the chair was palpable. But, whatever.
The young man took out a pen and asked it for the names, the names of the other leaders in the region.
He finished writing, called to his orderly, “Please take this to my other desk for confirmation”
He smiled. “So, in 48 hours I know if I can continue to protect them, or not…
A scream. “Wait!!! Wait!!! I will tell you!!!.”
The young man returned to his pen and paper and wrote down the information.
He took a well-worn book from a makeshift shelf and asked if he might read to the object, or if it would prefer to do it itself: Whichever passage, verse preferred.
He had been taught to be decent.
The chanting was done. The young man returned the tome to its proper place on the shelf.
He removed his sidearm.
After re-holstering the weapon, he asked his two guards to straighten out the mess in his room.
He called in the gunships first, to block off the passes out of the valley, and also, to burn all of the surrounding hillside such that no product might escape.
The fast-movers were next.
He didn’t want an ant walking out of that valley.
He knew that the engineers and infantry batts were on their way.
He retired to his quarters. He was pleased: perfectly sanitized and fresh-smelling.
Tomorrow was going to be a busy day: razing the town; preserving what infrastructure that could be preserved; and of course, the report to the Colonel. Oh! And had to call Mummy-it was her birthday. Daddy would kill him, otherwise, and she would be hurt, besides. And Amy. He took her picture from its plastic wrapping to gaze upon her beautiful image for a moment.
The imperious young New Englander called out as he went to sleep, “Three hours. No more, no less.”
“Yessir”
He watched the orange and white light flicker in time with explosions on his walls. He fell to sleep, breathing easy. It had been a good day.
There was a reluctance to cooperate. He had promised the Big Six.
He stood and stepped outside of the room. He told the eager young man that he needed it to speak, ASAP-15 minutes, tops. But leave the eyes, throat, tongue, etc. intact: he had to talk to it. It was important.
The young man’s gaze was withering, bone-chillingly cold. He was unaware of this.
He put his hand on the young infantryman’s shoulder, “Clear?”
“Yessir. Clear.”
“Good.”
He went to another room and cleared his mind and composed his report-nothing written: he was a student of history and knew the potentially disastrous results of written documentation.
He had to have a tight, cogent report: the Colonel was an outstandingly bright man, much like Dad. The Colonel and Dad shared many similarities: the same age; while the one was receiving a diploma at West Point, the other was receiving his diploma at Princeton; the same focus, the same blinding stare, the same drive, the same mentality: he had learned as a small child that you had to-absolutely had to-perform to the expected and required standards of The Best and The Brightest.
The Colonel and Dad were remarkably similar. It was an interesting phenomenon, but something for another day.
You did not approach either man to waste his time, or you would be crushed.
He radioed the Big Six.
“What do you have, 2?”
“Confirmation of the launch sites, Sir. I’ll need fast-movers and gunships to block the passes.”
They changed frequencies. He continued.
“I don’t want any self-removal of product from the valley, Sir. I will need engineers for product disposal. I recommend…”
He was cut off, “Do it. You also have three batts of infantry to block those passes coming your way. When?”
“I need ten more minutes, Sir, for the rest.”
“Outstanding. Call it in when it’s time.”
“Will I have the Big Eye?”
“None here. You’ll have to coordinate on the ground.”
“Yessir.”
“Out, Airborne.”
The report had gone well. The Colonel had obviously been pleased.
He stood and opened the door to his office. He glanced at the object-still seeing and breathing, voice box intact. He dismissed his guard.
“Thank you.”
“Yessir.”
The young man sat down in his chair and produced false photos of two children and a woman, blindfolded. He began to speak in the other language.
“Just tell me what I need to know, and they will continue to receive the best food, shelter, read the precious book. If you can’t help me… well… I can’t really guarantee anything.”
The hatred from the object in the chair was palpable. But, whatever.
The young man took out a pen and asked it for the names, the names of the other leaders in the region.
He finished writing, called to his orderly, “Please take this to my other desk for confirmation”
He smiled. “So, in 48 hours I know if I can continue to protect them, or not…
A scream. “Wait!!! Wait!!! I will tell you!!!.”
The young man returned to his pen and paper and wrote down the information.
He took a well-worn book from a makeshift shelf and asked if he might read to the object, or if it would prefer to do it itself: Whichever passage, verse preferred.
He had been taught to be decent.
The chanting was done. The young man returned the tome to its proper place on the shelf.
He removed his sidearm.
After re-holstering the weapon, he asked his two guards to straighten out the mess in his room.
He called in the gunships first, to block off the passes out of the valley, and also, to burn all of the surrounding hillside such that no product might escape.
The fast-movers were next.
He didn’t want an ant walking out of that valley.
He knew that the engineers and infantry batts were on their way.
He retired to his quarters. He was pleased: perfectly sanitized and fresh-smelling.
Tomorrow was going to be a busy day: razing the town; preserving what infrastructure that could be preserved; and of course, the report to the Colonel. Oh! And had to call Mummy-it was her birthday. Daddy would kill him, otherwise, and she would be hurt, besides. And Amy. He took her picture from its plastic wrapping to gaze upon her beautiful image for a moment.
The imperious young New Englander called out as he went to sleep, “Three hours. No more, no less.”
“Yessir”
He watched the orange and white light flicker in time with explosions on his walls. He fell to sleep, breathing easy. It had been a good day.
EMILY JANE AND I IN THE LAND OF LIGHT The Bright Light shined. It cascaded over us, through us. Em rested in my arms. She opened her golden eyes and smiled at me.
“I love thee, my Chatsworth.” My middle name. It reminds her of her original home.
“I love you, Em.” I don’t know how I could have loved her more.
Her right brow arched. “The Little One, he awaketh soon.”
I pushed my mouth to hers and she grasped me. I did to her the things that she loves me to do. She pulled me to herself and we melded, I melted inside of her. She kissed me ferociously. She made me moan. She cried out loud as the life that coursed through my frame was put into her. She sank her fangs into my shoulder as her body pulsated, as all that is good in us merged inside of her, as we were together. I kissed her smooth neck and smelled her delicious hair.
She was concerned about The Little One, I was exhausted. We tried to disentangle ourselves. She pulled me to herself and kissed me again.
I stared at the heavy oak beams that Vale and I had created to create this home. Emily Jane and I tried to breathe. I thought of pancakes and syrup and bacon and butter and eggs and milk as Em began to doze.
The Little One, her beautiful gift to me, my beautiful gift to her, laboriously pushed open the heavy oak doors with his little strength. He then went about amusing himself by walking up the wall and crawling across the ceiling-despite his mother’s known feelings on the subject.
I motioned to him, for him to come down before his mother saw him and took an attitude, but this was all to no avail. Em crossed her arms across her ample bosom as he dropped down to us and kissed her. He rubbed his tiny fangs against his mother’s heavy fangs. Their eyes glowed yellow. He then turned towards me and tried to wrap his little brown arms around my broad brown chest.
She coolly regarded him. “Get thee gone, Child, before I take a switch to thee. Fetch me milk that I may churn it, or willst thou have no butter for pancakes and syrup?” He almost evaporated with the speed with which he left us.
She draped herself over me. “He needeth a companion.” She disencumbered her lovely eyes of the long brown hair with a flick of her delicate fingers and thanked me. She smiled and kissed me. “Always have I wanted a daughter.”
The tiny bonnets, the tiny white bonnets and the little golden dresses that she and Priscilla had been knitting. She had been planning and plotting.
“Willst thou love me when my belly is round and full?”
I laughed and held her.
She stood and I found her beautiful.
“Nay,” she smiled sweetly, “I know thy mind.” She artfully pulled away. “The Little One must eat.”
Thus vanquished, I pulled on my trousers as she arranged herself.
We left the room, our hands intertwined.
West wanted to help his mother, to be with her. I stepped out onto the field before our home. In The Shining Light I regarded that which we had created. Vale, my brother-in-law and I would have to soon add another room for the little girl whom I knew Em was wanting to name Sarah Jane.
I laid myself down in the fragrant green grass and contemplated. I considered time and space and dimensions.
West ran out and hopped up and down upon me. ”Daddy! Daddy! Mommy hath prepared the breakfast!” I clutched him to me to make sure that he didn’t spiral away to God knows where.
I carried him in. The table was set. We put our hands together and thanked Him for the bounty before us on the table. As befits a little boy, our son ate voraciously; Emily Jane ate daintily; and I ate thoughtfully.
“Was it good, West?” I asked him.
He wiped his little mouth and grinned happily.
“Yes!”
“Maybe you might thank Mommy.”
“Thank you, Mommy!”
Em beamed.
We helped her clear the table.
I walked to the shed to fetch buckets for the fish. My little shadow exclaimed ”The river! We go to the river!” Em was in the garden that she had made, collecting corn, greens, peas, beans and squash.
I kissed her goodbye. I strode towards the river, The Little One skipping and laughing behind me.
“What!? There is no kiss for thy mother?”
West ran towards her and embraced her. He then turned and rushed back to me. Emily Jane watched us, smiled, and then continued her work in her garden.
The Little One and I walked down the gentle green slope, our feet bare in the fragrant green grass. Every blade shined, every blade had a song to sing. I lifted him to my shoulders as we approached the silver and golden forest in which there are no shadows.
I stepped into the topal, placid river, one bucket in hand, The Little One on my shoulders.
“May I, Daddy? May I?”
I kissed my little man. His mother knew everything anyway.
“Just don’t go out of my sight.”
He spiraled down the river. He let his tiny feet barely touch the water. He flew straight into the air. He descended to me and rested upon a bed of molecules and waves of light that I do not see. He smiled at me. He was earnest in his question as he floated next to me: “Daddy, are we getting lots of fish?”
We. “Yes.” I smiled. West soared away, and I gathered fish.
We returned home. There were kettles and pots near and on the well-tended hearth. Emily Jane clapped her hands and smiled, “Oh, such lovely fish!”
I put the buckets on the board. She winked at me and asked The Little One if he was going to accompany me to his Aunt Priscilla’s and Uncle Vale’s, or stay with her.
My little shadow and I walked along the beautiful, broad green ridge. He saw flowers that he found especially wonderful. He rushed ahead of me to gather some of them. I told him to take his time. He gathered wondrous blue and yellow and white and purple and orange and red flowers.
“For Pris, Daddy.”
I showed him how to tie them.
“This, my little charmer, is called a bouquet.” This made me consider. I asked him if he might help me gather more. West joyfully aided me in my inspired enterprise.
We approached them. Priscilla’s arms were outstretched, her face adorned with a blinding smile as The Little One raced towards her so swiftly that his little feet finally left the ground. She grasped him and they spun as she peppered him with kisses, as he peppered her lovely, freckled, button-nosed face with kisses.
“For me?” She laughed and they spun.
“I have a gift for thee as well, my little angel.”
His eyes widened. She took his hand and they left for the side of the house.
“I trust, my good sir, that those flowers are not meant to win my affections.” Vale said. He always makes me laugh. I sat down in the rocking chair next to his. He handed me a tankard of ale. My friend had made it ready for me, putting it out on the bright yellow porch that he and I had constructed some time ago.
“Yes, and no,” I laughed.
“Of course, of course.”
I laid down the flowers next to my chair. “You wouldn’t happen to have any tobacco, would you, Vale?”
“My friend, it just so happens that you are in the right place at the right time.” He proceeded to roll a smoke for me, and then one for himself.
We enjoyed our smoke and drank our ale. He was glad to see me: he had been cross-referencing his Locke and Voltaire with the W.E.B. Du Bois that I had given to him such that we might have a thoughtful conversation.
Deep in a most productive discourse, we were interrupted by a squeal of delight from small lungs. The Little One had received his gift. Our discussion was further interrupted when The Little One came around to us, cradling the puppy, the little black Labrador in his arms.
I was touched, proud of the reverence for the little life in his arms that my little man evinced.
West gently laid him down upon the grass, and then knelt and considered him.
Priscilla knelt beside him and gently stroked the errant locks from her nephew’s eyes.
She could no longer contain herself: “What willst thou his name?”
West continued to carefully gaze into the large brown eyes of his new friend, and then, he decided.
The young Name-Giver, through me, through my father, and through his, and his, and his, unto Adam, naturally took very seriously this honor bestowed upon him, this honor granted by The Perfect One.
“Buttons. I shall name thee Buttons.”
Priscilla glowed and clapped her hands. ”How clever thou art, my little angel, my little man!!”
“Daddy, I have named him. He is Buttons.”
West smiled as he kissed the tiny forehead of Buttons.
Priscilla, West, and Buttons left me and Vale to our conversation so they could engage in the far more important of gamboling and cavorting over and through the fields before us.
The ale was good, as was the tobacco. My friend and I took in The Brilliance. Vale had something to say, but he hadn’t said it. I knew that my friend would tell me in his own good time.
Vale had helped annex a great deal of Mexico to the United States some one hundred and twenty odd years before I was born. The Mexican-American War. He had been a captain at first, and then, rapidly, a colonel. He was a gifted man of strategy.
He never forgot the stench and the screams and the horrors and the pain and the blood and the death for victory that his brilliance had made possible near that grand, huge river.
That which he had made possible never left Vale for the many mortal years allotted to him.
Vale did ask for forgiveness, for mercy.
I handed Vale a bunch of flowers. I went about taking mine and creating a coronet.
“Good thinking, my good sir, very good indeed. Vale put down his smoke.
We watched Life become almost incomprehensibly beautiful as we created with our hands crowns of forever, flowers and love for our darling ones.
Vale, the former cavalryman, fetched horses and began to hitch them to his fine wagon. Before I could ask him if all of this was necessary, he pointed to the sleeping West, the sleeping Buttons, and his Priscilla, adoring them, goldening them with her shining eyes. She would not suffer this rest to be broken.
“Bye the bye, from where did this splendid idea of coronets come?” Vale asked me as he finished the harnessing.
“West made me think of it.” I watched as his mother’s sister gathered him and his new friend to her bosom and cradled them.
“You know, of course, my friend, that that little man of yours has been putting all kinds of thoughts into the minds of all kinds of folk ‘round here.
I was puzzled, but he didn’t make me wait.
“All those frilly bonnets and little yellow dresses, for one little girl?” Vale looked at his home, then me, then smiled. “My erudite friend, I do believe that those ladies have cut out some work for us.”
I laughed again.
We helped Priscilla into the wagon. She was very careful not to disturb the little ones in her arms.
We rode along the rich green ridge leisurely, accepting the pleasure of the pleasure of the fragrances surrounding us, The Light, the vision that was afforded to us. As we came nearer and nearer to his mother, The Little One stirred, he opened his eyes.
He gingerly removed himself from his aunt’s arms. He gingerly removed Buttons and gingerly held him and sweetly presented him to Emily Jane.
She regarded her son with joy and pride.
“Mommy, this is Buttons.” he said solemnly.
“Thou hast named him? Thou hast given him a name?” She gently kissed the face of her child.
Emily Jane put out a saucer of milk for Buttons. She and Priscilla embraced and laughed and began discussing babies as they walked hand in hand towards the hearth. West and Buttons ranged over the field before us and enjoyed The Light. Vale and I unhitched the horses. They roamed and grazed. Vale and I partook of our ale and our tobacco. We considered and designed the changes necessary to accommodate our new arrivals.
We were called to the table.
I placed the crown of flowers that I had made upon the brow of Emily Jane. Vale placed the crown that he had made upon the brow of his Priscilla. The women glowed.
We put our hands together and gave thanks to Him for the bounty before us, around us, for each other.
We gave thanks to Him for giving us Love that we could share with each other.
We laughed and ate and drank and lived together. We loved together. We basked in The Light that casts no shadows.
He had redeemed us, His children. He was kind to us. He loved us.
He had restored our souls, and we would be glad, forever
“I love thee, my Chatsworth.” My middle name. It reminds her of her original home.
“I love you, Em.” I don’t know how I could have loved her more.
Her right brow arched. “The Little One, he awaketh soon.”
I pushed my mouth to hers and she grasped me. I did to her the things that she loves me to do. She pulled me to herself and we melded, I melted inside of her. She kissed me ferociously. She made me moan. She cried out loud as the life that coursed through my frame was put into her. She sank her fangs into my shoulder as her body pulsated, as all that is good in us merged inside of her, as we were together. I kissed her smooth neck and smelled her delicious hair.
She was concerned about The Little One, I was exhausted. We tried to disentangle ourselves. She pulled me to herself and kissed me again.
I stared at the heavy oak beams that Vale and I had created to create this home. Emily Jane and I tried to breathe. I thought of pancakes and syrup and bacon and butter and eggs and milk as Em began to doze.
The Little One, her beautiful gift to me, my beautiful gift to her, laboriously pushed open the heavy oak doors with his little strength. He then went about amusing himself by walking up the wall and crawling across the ceiling-despite his mother’s known feelings on the subject.
I motioned to him, for him to come down before his mother saw him and took an attitude, but this was all to no avail. Em crossed her arms across her ample bosom as he dropped down to us and kissed her. He rubbed his tiny fangs against his mother’s heavy fangs. Their eyes glowed yellow. He then turned towards me and tried to wrap his little brown arms around my broad brown chest.
She coolly regarded him. “Get thee gone, Child, before I take a switch to thee. Fetch me milk that I may churn it, or willst thou have no butter for pancakes and syrup?” He almost evaporated with the speed with which he left us.
She draped herself over me. “He needeth a companion.” She disencumbered her lovely eyes of the long brown hair with a flick of her delicate fingers and thanked me. She smiled and kissed me. “Always have I wanted a daughter.”
The tiny bonnets, the tiny white bonnets and the little golden dresses that she and Priscilla had been knitting. She had been planning and plotting.
“Willst thou love me when my belly is round and full?”
I laughed and held her.
She stood and I found her beautiful.
“Nay,” she smiled sweetly, “I know thy mind.” She artfully pulled away. “The Little One must eat.”
Thus vanquished, I pulled on my trousers as she arranged herself.
We left the room, our hands intertwined.
West wanted to help his mother, to be with her. I stepped out onto the field before our home. In The Shining Light I regarded that which we had created. Vale, my brother-in-law and I would have to soon add another room for the little girl whom I knew Em was wanting to name Sarah Jane.
I laid myself down in the fragrant green grass and contemplated. I considered time and space and dimensions.
West ran out and hopped up and down upon me. ”Daddy! Daddy! Mommy hath prepared the breakfast!” I clutched him to me to make sure that he didn’t spiral away to God knows where.
I carried him in. The table was set. We put our hands together and thanked Him for the bounty before us on the table. As befits a little boy, our son ate voraciously; Emily Jane ate daintily; and I ate thoughtfully.
“Was it good, West?” I asked him.
He wiped his little mouth and grinned happily.
“Yes!”
“Maybe you might thank Mommy.”
“Thank you, Mommy!”
Em beamed.
We helped her clear the table.
I walked to the shed to fetch buckets for the fish. My little shadow exclaimed ”The river! We go to the river!” Em was in the garden that she had made, collecting corn, greens, peas, beans and squash.
I kissed her goodbye. I strode towards the river, The Little One skipping and laughing behind me.
“What!? There is no kiss for thy mother?”
West ran towards her and embraced her. He then turned and rushed back to me. Emily Jane watched us, smiled, and then continued her work in her garden.
The Little One and I walked down the gentle green slope, our feet bare in the fragrant green grass. Every blade shined, every blade had a song to sing. I lifted him to my shoulders as we approached the silver and golden forest in which there are no shadows.
I stepped into the topal, placid river, one bucket in hand, The Little One on my shoulders.
“May I, Daddy? May I?”
I kissed my little man. His mother knew everything anyway.
“Just don’t go out of my sight.”
He spiraled down the river. He let his tiny feet barely touch the water. He flew straight into the air. He descended to me and rested upon a bed of molecules and waves of light that I do not see. He smiled at me. He was earnest in his question as he floated next to me: “Daddy, are we getting lots of fish?”
We. “Yes.” I smiled. West soared away, and I gathered fish.
We returned home. There were kettles and pots near and on the well-tended hearth. Emily Jane clapped her hands and smiled, “Oh, such lovely fish!”
I put the buckets on the board. She winked at me and asked The Little One if he was going to accompany me to his Aunt Priscilla’s and Uncle Vale’s, or stay with her.
My little shadow and I walked along the beautiful, broad green ridge. He saw flowers that he found especially wonderful. He rushed ahead of me to gather some of them. I told him to take his time. He gathered wondrous blue and yellow and white and purple and orange and red flowers.
“For Pris, Daddy.”
I showed him how to tie them.
“This, my little charmer, is called a bouquet.” This made me consider. I asked him if he might help me gather more. West joyfully aided me in my inspired enterprise.
We approached them. Priscilla’s arms were outstretched, her face adorned with a blinding smile as The Little One raced towards her so swiftly that his little feet finally left the ground. She grasped him and they spun as she peppered him with kisses, as he peppered her lovely, freckled, button-nosed face with kisses.
“For me?” She laughed and they spun.
“I have a gift for thee as well, my little angel.”
His eyes widened. She took his hand and they left for the side of the house.
“I trust, my good sir, that those flowers are not meant to win my affections.” Vale said. He always makes me laugh. I sat down in the rocking chair next to his. He handed me a tankard of ale. My friend had made it ready for me, putting it out on the bright yellow porch that he and I had constructed some time ago.
“Yes, and no,” I laughed.
“Of course, of course.”
I laid down the flowers next to my chair. “You wouldn’t happen to have any tobacco, would you, Vale?”
“My friend, it just so happens that you are in the right place at the right time.” He proceeded to roll a smoke for me, and then one for himself.
We enjoyed our smoke and drank our ale. He was glad to see me: he had been cross-referencing his Locke and Voltaire with the W.E.B. Du Bois that I had given to him such that we might have a thoughtful conversation.
Deep in a most productive discourse, we were interrupted by a squeal of delight from small lungs. The Little One had received his gift. Our discussion was further interrupted when The Little One came around to us, cradling the puppy, the little black Labrador in his arms.
I was touched, proud of the reverence for the little life in his arms that my little man evinced.
West gently laid him down upon the grass, and then knelt and considered him.
Priscilla knelt beside him and gently stroked the errant locks from her nephew’s eyes.
She could no longer contain herself: “What willst thou his name?”
West continued to carefully gaze into the large brown eyes of his new friend, and then, he decided.
The young Name-Giver, through me, through my father, and through his, and his, and his, unto Adam, naturally took very seriously this honor bestowed upon him, this honor granted by The Perfect One.
“Buttons. I shall name thee Buttons.”
Priscilla glowed and clapped her hands. ”How clever thou art, my little angel, my little man!!”
“Daddy, I have named him. He is Buttons.”
West smiled as he kissed the tiny forehead of Buttons.
Priscilla, West, and Buttons left me and Vale to our conversation so they could engage in the far more important of gamboling and cavorting over and through the fields before us.
The ale was good, as was the tobacco. My friend and I took in The Brilliance. Vale had something to say, but he hadn’t said it. I knew that my friend would tell me in his own good time.
Vale had helped annex a great deal of Mexico to the United States some one hundred and twenty odd years before I was born. The Mexican-American War. He had been a captain at first, and then, rapidly, a colonel. He was a gifted man of strategy.
He never forgot the stench and the screams and the horrors and the pain and the blood and the death for victory that his brilliance had made possible near that grand, huge river.
That which he had made possible never left Vale for the many mortal years allotted to him.
Vale did ask for forgiveness, for mercy.
I handed Vale a bunch of flowers. I went about taking mine and creating a coronet.
“Good thinking, my good sir, very good indeed. Vale put down his smoke.
We watched Life become almost incomprehensibly beautiful as we created with our hands crowns of forever, flowers and love for our darling ones.
Vale, the former cavalryman, fetched horses and began to hitch them to his fine wagon. Before I could ask him if all of this was necessary, he pointed to the sleeping West, the sleeping Buttons, and his Priscilla, adoring them, goldening them with her shining eyes. She would not suffer this rest to be broken.
“Bye the bye, from where did this splendid idea of coronets come?” Vale asked me as he finished the harnessing.
“West made me think of it.” I watched as his mother’s sister gathered him and his new friend to her bosom and cradled them.
“You know, of course, my friend, that that little man of yours has been putting all kinds of thoughts into the minds of all kinds of folk ‘round here.
I was puzzled, but he didn’t make me wait.
“All those frilly bonnets and little yellow dresses, for one little girl?” Vale looked at his home, then me, then smiled. “My erudite friend, I do believe that those ladies have cut out some work for us.”
I laughed again.
We helped Priscilla into the wagon. She was very careful not to disturb the little ones in her arms.
We rode along the rich green ridge leisurely, accepting the pleasure of the pleasure of the fragrances surrounding us, The Light, the vision that was afforded to us. As we came nearer and nearer to his mother, The Little One stirred, he opened his eyes.
He gingerly removed himself from his aunt’s arms. He gingerly removed Buttons and gingerly held him and sweetly presented him to Emily Jane.
She regarded her son with joy and pride.
“Mommy, this is Buttons.” he said solemnly.
“Thou hast named him? Thou hast given him a name?” She gently kissed the face of her child.
Emily Jane put out a saucer of milk for Buttons. She and Priscilla embraced and laughed and began discussing babies as they walked hand in hand towards the hearth. West and Buttons ranged over the field before us and enjoyed The Light. Vale and I unhitched the horses. They roamed and grazed. Vale and I partook of our ale and our tobacco. We considered and designed the changes necessary to accommodate our new arrivals.
We were called to the table.
I placed the crown of flowers that I had made upon the brow of Emily Jane. Vale placed the crown that he had made upon the brow of his Priscilla. The women glowed.
We put our hands together and gave thanks to Him for the bounty before us, around us, for each other.
We gave thanks to Him for giving us Love that we could share with each other.
We laughed and ate and drank and lived together. We loved together. We basked in The Light that casts no shadows.
He had redeemed us, His children. He was kind to us. He loved us.
He had restored our souls, and we would be glad, forever
THE GREEN DEAD GIRL, Why eateth your Master with Publicans and sinners? But when Jesus heard that, he said unto them, They that be whole need not a physician, but they that are sick. But go ye and learn what that meaneth, I will have mercy, and not sacrifice: for I am not come to call the righteous, but the sinners to repentance.
Matthew 9: 11, 12, 13
She comes to me all the time.
When I’m sad and lonely she comes to me. When I am horribly cold, she puts herself around me
She comes to me, she won’t tolerate my sadness. She tells me that she loves me.
I can’t help but love her, even though she is what she is.
When I first met her, she would tell me that she was kind, sweet. I wondered why she bothered to pretend to be this way. She was cruel and beautiful and a liar.
She lied to me all the time. This became tiresome, was tiresome, but she laughed so prettily, smiled so wondrously that I had to forgive her.
I won’t leave her there alone, in that place, in that terrible place to which she has been, The Lake of Fire.
I know what she wants. I know that she is lonely.
I saw her. I knew that she was dead. I wondered why she was green. At first, the green dead girl frightened me a great deal. When I first saw her wandering about the wooded backyard of my house one night, I made sure to lock all the doors and windows. She managed to come in.
Night after night. The light tread on the steps, the soft knock on the door, the turning of the knob, her laughter. The door would swing open and no one would be there. I would just here her whispering and laughing. Whispering lies and telling me things that I knew were not true. She did this so often that I double-bolted everything. I didn’t want to hear her, to listen to her. I wanted to rest.
She became horribly angry, and I told her to go away; she was going to do terrible things, and I asked her how; she smashed open the windows, and I realized, it became real, tangible to me, how much she wanted not to be lonely. I began to wonder if she was just cold. Though she tormented me, I began to feel mean for turning her away, for locking her out.
On the night that I did what I did I hadn’t been able to sleep, to rest. I went down the stairs and through the house and towards the back. I stopped at the latticed glass doors letting out onto the veranda.
She was sitting next to the modest, still, lighted pool, wistfully gazing into it. I stared at her, her striking profile made sharp by the cool light of the shining white moon. She stood gracefully and turned towards me. She seemed to glide. She stopped at the glass doors.
Mere inches, a sheet of glass, a bit of air separated us. A vast chasm of time and space and understanding and miscomprehension separated us. Though my heart raced, I coolly regarded the dead girl standing before me, watching me. Her golden eyes shined.
She slowly and gently pressed her hand against the glass. She lowered her head for a moment, her long, sooty eyelashes brushing the high, delicate green cheekbones, and then, reluctantly, almost fearfully, she raised her head and ventured a smile, a true smile. She wanted to be true. She smiled at me, her teeth and fangs glinting bright white, accentuated by the singular pallid green of her smooth, flawless skin.
I raised my hand and pressed it against the glass. I remember wondering if she was as sad and lonely as I was. I did know that she was replete with anger and fear, confusion and tenderness.
I unlatched the doors.
Her smile widened, as did her eyes. She slowly traced the outline of my palm through the glass and then turned away, returning to her gazing into the pool.
My eyes continued to rest upon her. I continued to consider her and wonder about her. I then returned to my room and my bed and other pressing thoughts. It had been forty-six days times twenty-four hours times sixty minutes times sixty seconds, approximately, that The Terror, His sore judgment, hadn’t been laid upon me.
Perfectly, of course, The Lord My God punishes me, perfectly, forever. Even when I breathe and live outside of the agony, the ever-present fear of The Pain has become almost as bad as The Pain itself. I reap that which I have sown, and I have now no rest.
When I opened my eyes some hours later she was there, sitting placidly next to my bed. Honoring an unspoken and unshared silent pledge, she had let me have the peace that I might have. I hadn’t even known that she was there. I reached out to her, I gently touched her face. She grasped my hand and pressed it against her cool skin. She sighed, her substantial bosom rose and fell, and she smiled again, and I was glad that she wasn’t alone.
He should love her. I don’t understand why He loves me and won’t love her.
She is so alone. She longs for Him and wishes for Him to love her.
It was four nights later when The Terror came. Abruptly.
It was as if I were in a beautiful plain filled with tall yellow flowers covered by fragrant green grass bound by fragrances so wonderful under the brilliant light of a brilliant sun under a vaulting blue sky that I saw It searching for me.
It saw me, and there was nowhere for me to go, nowhere to hide in that beautiful and lustrous field-I had searched and tried so many times before and had found nowhere to go, nothing or no one to help me. Like many other times, I told Him that I was sorry, I begged Him to spare me. I loved Him. I didn’t understand why He would let this happen.
I watched It sweep implacably towards me as I silently plead to Him for the mercy that I knew that He would not grant me. My Lord, my God, my dear Lord.
The matter behind my eyes ignited and instantly became an inferno. It had come. I cried out with my living breath to The Perfect One, but He found this meet.
Perversely, I welcomed The Pain because I had become so tired of dreading Its arrival.
Each and every breath, each and every beat of my heart, each and every blink of my eyes, all light, all darkness, all sound, all silence, all sensation, all thought created a mind-shattering cascade of brilliantly inescapable suffering and burning in every fiber of my being that made me choke and cry. Eventually, I wished that the heart-stopping pain would do just that-but it never did, and I found Him cruel, and I hated Him, and I hated myself for hating Him.
She found me there, writhing on the floor, and she was kind to me. I was exhausted and rent. She arranged my head and shoulders onto her lap and comforted me. It had been some hours and my eyes were heavy. She gingerly stroked my face with her cool hand.
The Terror had had enough of me and had moved on, leaving me to the tender mercies of the pretty, dead Pilgrim. She smiled the most kind, loving, beautiful smile that I have ever had the pleasure of seeing.
I smiled at her. I released her from her pledge.
She spoke to me thoughtfully in her crisp, ancient English accent.
She no longer wanted to deceive me. She showed to me and told to me all kinds of things that I knew to be true. She changed into the Sweet Girl. She told me what she saw, what she had seen when she came here in 1657. She says that she is sorry. She says that she is sorry for the things that her father did, the things that her brothers did. She loved them. She loved them dearly. So she accepted the place to live and the wonderful land and the good things to eat taken from their bloody hands.
I see and I hear. I didn’t know. I didn’t know better. As a child I eventually found it unwise to tell people about the people around them, what they wanted, what they sought. In a way, this made me tremendously lonely: people made me so wrong, and they hurt me; they hurt me with the terrible electricity, the bright long needles, the terrible drugs and the terrible loneliness and the cold. I stopped telling them. I stopped being honest with them. It was important to them to see what they chose to see. I don’t tell what I see and hear.
I decided to be lonely so that they could love me, so they could feel good about themselves, so they could stop hurting me.
One night she was standing next to my bed, shivering in the coldness. Her hazel eyes glinted in the night light, as did her lustrous long brown hair shimmer, shine, errant locks adorning the lime green oval face before flowing over her lime green shoulders. I couldn’t leave the green dead girl there, so I placed her in my bed, which was warm. She held me tightly and thanked me over and over again, and then she put her head to my shoulder and wept tears of blood. She told me the things that built a bridge between us. She told me her name.
Emily Jane Pritchard.
She came here across the Sea and did what she felt was Our Lord’s Will, what she thought were the good works of Our Lord. She had seen the savage crushing of the brown savages whose lands her people took; she had seen the suffering of the black savages her people had taken from a faraway land to be enslaved here and found it all to be meet and good, that which they had done to my ancestors, brown and black. She found out afterward that she had been tragically mistaken.
I understand her.
Our Lord has punished me for the horrors that I inflicted in His name. In the Army we ranged over the deserts and through the bountiful woods and across the seas and through the skies and slaughtered and destroyed so many and so much for Him. I had been told that this was His will and I believed it. I was tragically mistaken.
I thus have an exquisite understanding of pain and Our Lord’s disfavor.
She and I both were born into worlds which neither of us created, worlds which seemed to demand mercilessness and cruelty of its children, and in our own fashions, both of us had been merciless and cruel.
She asked me to know me, and I was afraid of her knowing me. She took her hand and touched my face. The dead girl swiftly recoiled, pulling away her hand, her eyes wide with horror.
She looked into her interlaced hands resting in her lap as I thought, as my heart began to break: Even you. She knew my mind and gazed upon me.
She gently lifted my chin and shined her golden eyes upon me and smiled brightly at me and kissed me.
She forgave me.
She told me of a place. She told me how wonderful it was there. I go there with her. There is a forest through which we walk together, hands intertwined. There is beauty and beautiful fragrance and goodness and freedom from fear there.
There is a table by the river there, ladened with good things to eat. We walk through the fields, our feet bare, touching the soft green grass under a shining bright light. She kisses me, and we go to the house, our house, the house that is high upon the hill, the mansion that is brilliantly lighted, high upon the hill, high, in the shining city upon the hill.
And she is no longer alone, and I am no longer alone.
We are. We exist. Together.
Matthew 9: 11, 12, 13
She comes to me all the time.
When I’m sad and lonely she comes to me. When I am horribly cold, she puts herself around me
She comes to me, she won’t tolerate my sadness. She tells me that she loves me.
I can’t help but love her, even though she is what she is.
When I first met her, she would tell me that she was kind, sweet. I wondered why she bothered to pretend to be this way. She was cruel and beautiful and a liar.
She lied to me all the time. This became tiresome, was tiresome, but she laughed so prettily, smiled so wondrously that I had to forgive her.
I won’t leave her there alone, in that place, in that terrible place to which she has been, The Lake of Fire.
I know what she wants. I know that she is lonely.
I saw her. I knew that she was dead. I wondered why she was green. At first, the green dead girl frightened me a great deal. When I first saw her wandering about the wooded backyard of my house one night, I made sure to lock all the doors and windows. She managed to come in.
Night after night. The light tread on the steps, the soft knock on the door, the turning of the knob, her laughter. The door would swing open and no one would be there. I would just here her whispering and laughing. Whispering lies and telling me things that I knew were not true. She did this so often that I double-bolted everything. I didn’t want to hear her, to listen to her. I wanted to rest.
She became horribly angry, and I told her to go away; she was going to do terrible things, and I asked her how; she smashed open the windows, and I realized, it became real, tangible to me, how much she wanted not to be lonely. I began to wonder if she was just cold. Though she tormented me, I began to feel mean for turning her away, for locking her out.
On the night that I did what I did I hadn’t been able to sleep, to rest. I went down the stairs and through the house and towards the back. I stopped at the latticed glass doors letting out onto the veranda.
She was sitting next to the modest, still, lighted pool, wistfully gazing into it. I stared at her, her striking profile made sharp by the cool light of the shining white moon. She stood gracefully and turned towards me. She seemed to glide. She stopped at the glass doors.
Mere inches, a sheet of glass, a bit of air separated us. A vast chasm of time and space and understanding and miscomprehension separated us. Though my heart raced, I coolly regarded the dead girl standing before me, watching me. Her golden eyes shined.
She slowly and gently pressed her hand against the glass. She lowered her head for a moment, her long, sooty eyelashes brushing the high, delicate green cheekbones, and then, reluctantly, almost fearfully, she raised her head and ventured a smile, a true smile. She wanted to be true. She smiled at me, her teeth and fangs glinting bright white, accentuated by the singular pallid green of her smooth, flawless skin.
I raised my hand and pressed it against the glass. I remember wondering if she was as sad and lonely as I was. I did know that she was replete with anger and fear, confusion and tenderness.
I unlatched the doors.
Her smile widened, as did her eyes. She slowly traced the outline of my palm through the glass and then turned away, returning to her gazing into the pool.
My eyes continued to rest upon her. I continued to consider her and wonder about her. I then returned to my room and my bed and other pressing thoughts. It had been forty-six days times twenty-four hours times sixty minutes times sixty seconds, approximately, that The Terror, His sore judgment, hadn’t been laid upon me.
Perfectly, of course, The Lord My God punishes me, perfectly, forever. Even when I breathe and live outside of the agony, the ever-present fear of The Pain has become almost as bad as The Pain itself. I reap that which I have sown, and I have now no rest.
When I opened my eyes some hours later she was there, sitting placidly next to my bed. Honoring an unspoken and unshared silent pledge, she had let me have the peace that I might have. I hadn’t even known that she was there. I reached out to her, I gently touched her face. She grasped my hand and pressed it against her cool skin. She sighed, her substantial bosom rose and fell, and she smiled again, and I was glad that she wasn’t alone.
He should love her. I don’t understand why He loves me and won’t love her.
She is so alone. She longs for Him and wishes for Him to love her.
It was four nights later when The Terror came. Abruptly.
It was as if I were in a beautiful plain filled with tall yellow flowers covered by fragrant green grass bound by fragrances so wonderful under the brilliant light of a brilliant sun under a vaulting blue sky that I saw It searching for me.
It saw me, and there was nowhere for me to go, nowhere to hide in that beautiful and lustrous field-I had searched and tried so many times before and had found nowhere to go, nothing or no one to help me. Like many other times, I told Him that I was sorry, I begged Him to spare me. I loved Him. I didn’t understand why He would let this happen.
I watched It sweep implacably towards me as I silently plead to Him for the mercy that I knew that He would not grant me. My Lord, my God, my dear Lord.
The matter behind my eyes ignited and instantly became an inferno. It had come. I cried out with my living breath to The Perfect One, but He found this meet.
Perversely, I welcomed The Pain because I had become so tired of dreading Its arrival.
Each and every breath, each and every beat of my heart, each and every blink of my eyes, all light, all darkness, all sound, all silence, all sensation, all thought created a mind-shattering cascade of brilliantly inescapable suffering and burning in every fiber of my being that made me choke and cry. Eventually, I wished that the heart-stopping pain would do just that-but it never did, and I found Him cruel, and I hated Him, and I hated myself for hating Him.
She found me there, writhing on the floor, and she was kind to me. I was exhausted and rent. She arranged my head and shoulders onto her lap and comforted me. It had been some hours and my eyes were heavy. She gingerly stroked my face with her cool hand.
The Terror had had enough of me and had moved on, leaving me to the tender mercies of the pretty, dead Pilgrim. She smiled the most kind, loving, beautiful smile that I have ever had the pleasure of seeing.
I smiled at her. I released her from her pledge.
She spoke to me thoughtfully in her crisp, ancient English accent.
She no longer wanted to deceive me. She showed to me and told to me all kinds of things that I knew to be true. She changed into the Sweet Girl. She told me what she saw, what she had seen when she came here in 1657. She says that she is sorry. She says that she is sorry for the things that her father did, the things that her brothers did. She loved them. She loved them dearly. So she accepted the place to live and the wonderful land and the good things to eat taken from their bloody hands.
I see and I hear. I didn’t know. I didn’t know better. As a child I eventually found it unwise to tell people about the people around them, what they wanted, what they sought. In a way, this made me tremendously lonely: people made me so wrong, and they hurt me; they hurt me with the terrible electricity, the bright long needles, the terrible drugs and the terrible loneliness and the cold. I stopped telling them. I stopped being honest with them. It was important to them to see what they chose to see. I don’t tell what I see and hear.
I decided to be lonely so that they could love me, so they could feel good about themselves, so they could stop hurting me.
One night she was standing next to my bed, shivering in the coldness. Her hazel eyes glinted in the night light, as did her lustrous long brown hair shimmer, shine, errant locks adorning the lime green oval face before flowing over her lime green shoulders. I couldn’t leave the green dead girl there, so I placed her in my bed, which was warm. She held me tightly and thanked me over and over again, and then she put her head to my shoulder and wept tears of blood. She told me the things that built a bridge between us. She told me her name.
Emily Jane Pritchard.
She came here across the Sea and did what she felt was Our Lord’s Will, what she thought were the good works of Our Lord. She had seen the savage crushing of the brown savages whose lands her people took; she had seen the suffering of the black savages her people had taken from a faraway land to be enslaved here and found it all to be meet and good, that which they had done to my ancestors, brown and black. She found out afterward that she had been tragically mistaken.
I understand her.
Our Lord has punished me for the horrors that I inflicted in His name. In the Army we ranged over the deserts and through the bountiful woods and across the seas and through the skies and slaughtered and destroyed so many and so much for Him. I had been told that this was His will and I believed it. I was tragically mistaken.
I thus have an exquisite understanding of pain and Our Lord’s disfavor.
She and I both were born into worlds which neither of us created, worlds which seemed to demand mercilessness and cruelty of its children, and in our own fashions, both of us had been merciless and cruel.
She asked me to know me, and I was afraid of her knowing me. She took her hand and touched my face. The dead girl swiftly recoiled, pulling away her hand, her eyes wide with horror.
She looked into her interlaced hands resting in her lap as I thought, as my heart began to break: Even you. She knew my mind and gazed upon me.
She gently lifted my chin and shined her golden eyes upon me and smiled brightly at me and kissed me.
She forgave me.
She told me of a place. She told me how wonderful it was there. I go there with her. There is a forest through which we walk together, hands intertwined. There is beauty and beautiful fragrance and goodness and freedom from fear there.
There is a table by the river there, ladened with good things to eat. We walk through the fields, our feet bare, touching the soft green grass under a shining bright light. She kisses me, and we go to the house, our house, the house that is high upon the hill, the mansion that is brilliantly lighted, high upon the hill, high, in the shining city upon the hill.
And she is no longer alone, and I am no longer alone.
We are. We exist. Together.
THE LETTER
Dad, Kayla,
I want you to understand.
This has nothing to do with anything that you have ever said or done: you’ve done nothing but give me love and kindness. I love you so much. I’m so sorry. You have both been there for me when I had nothing, bereft of everything.
I owe you the explanation.
Dad, I didn’t tell you how bad the drugs that they gave me made me feel. I’m sorry. I feel like I snowed you. But I so wanted to be better, not to disappoint you anymore. I wanted them to work. I did try, I tried so hard. I’m sorry. You and Mummy gave me so many wonderful gifts, but I have squandered them. I apologize.
I hated the drugs. I was crawling in my own skin. I was so amped all the time-and you know that I’m the last person in the world who needs to be amped. The sleep-meds helped me to sleep, but I’m so tightly wound that they had to keep increasing the dosage. I was on a roller coaster-up and down. I didn’t feel better. I just felt strange, weird. I couldn’t tell my psych because she would have had me locked up. I was totally trapped.
I am, I am totally trapped.
I tried, I swear, I tried so hard, please believe me, I just couldn’t keep taking them.
I tried hooch, booze, for a little bit, but that didn’t work either: I felt worse.
The dreams are becoming so much more frequent. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about the dreams. I never liked them. Kay, you know, from when we were little that I hated them, that I knew that everyone hated them.
Me.
For having them. I wished they would stop. I hate them, too. I’ve always hated them. They won’t stop. I’m sorry.
I wake up and I ask God why, why did He do this to me? Why do I have to See the terrible things people have done to each other, See the horrible things that they are going to do to each other?
What did I do? I must have done something, I must have. But I don’t know what.
He wouldn’t have done this to me if I had done nothing wrong. I wish I knew what I have done. Then I could ask Him for forgiveness. But I don’t know.
I go to sleep in total dread of what I will See when I want to See nothing.
I hate Seeing.
I’m tired. I’m tired of asking why. The redundancy of people’s cruel actions is in my face, day, and night. Dad, Kay, please understand.
I can never rest, that’s what I’m trying to say. I just want to rest, have peace.
I told you about Her.
I know that you don’t like hearing about these things, but She tells me that She needs me, that She loves me. She knows about the pain that this may cause to those whom I love, but She says it will pass: She loves me, too.
She says that we can be together, that She can give to me what our wealth has not: peace.
She’s so beautiful, so kind, so warm. Please be happy for me. She gives me warmth, peace. She’s exceptionally intelligent: we have extraordinary conversations regarding anything and everything. I can talk to Her about anything, and She still loves me. I love Her.
I have my concerns, but She asks me if I want to stay here, in this place, like this, or be with Her. Forever. In peace. She says that we can rest together, in peace, forever.
To rest in peace forever with Her, as opposed to no rest, no peace. I'm so tired.
But She has shown me a way, a way to be with Her, the most glowingly bright, beautiful creature that I have ever encountered. Anywhere.
She says that it will only hurt for a few moments, then, we can be together.
And we can be happy. I can be happy.
I can finally know Happiness.
She says that She can give me Happiness.
She has become impatient.
All of my papers, account numbers, bank names, locations, Will, et cetera, documents of any significance are in the upper-right hand drawer of the bureau next to the desk in my office at my place. It will be unlocked. I believe everything is fairly self-explanatory, and I’ve already made you both joint beneficiaries on everything that I have here. I believe things will go smoothly- just have your I.D. and the certificate from the state when you go to close things out.
I love you.
Your Son, your Brother
Dad, Kayla,
I want you to understand.
This has nothing to do with anything that you have ever said or done: you’ve done nothing but give me love and kindness. I love you so much. I’m so sorry. You have both been there for me when I had nothing, bereft of everything.
I owe you the explanation.
Dad, I didn’t tell you how bad the drugs that they gave me made me feel. I’m sorry. I feel like I snowed you. But I so wanted to be better, not to disappoint you anymore. I wanted them to work. I did try, I tried so hard. I’m sorry. You and Mummy gave me so many wonderful gifts, but I have squandered them. I apologize.
I hated the drugs. I was crawling in my own skin. I was so amped all the time-and you know that I’m the last person in the world who needs to be amped. The sleep-meds helped me to sleep, but I’m so tightly wound that they had to keep increasing the dosage. I was on a roller coaster-up and down. I didn’t feel better. I just felt strange, weird. I couldn’t tell my psych because she would have had me locked up. I was totally trapped.
I am, I am totally trapped.
I tried, I swear, I tried so hard, please believe me, I just couldn’t keep taking them.
I tried hooch, booze, for a little bit, but that didn’t work either: I felt worse.
The dreams are becoming so much more frequent. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about the dreams. I never liked them. Kay, you know, from when we were little that I hated them, that I knew that everyone hated them.
Me.
For having them. I wished they would stop. I hate them, too. I’ve always hated them. They won’t stop. I’m sorry.
I wake up and I ask God why, why did He do this to me? Why do I have to See the terrible things people have done to each other, See the horrible things that they are going to do to each other?
What did I do? I must have done something, I must have. But I don’t know what.
He wouldn’t have done this to me if I had done nothing wrong. I wish I knew what I have done. Then I could ask Him for forgiveness. But I don’t know.
I go to sleep in total dread of what I will See when I want to See nothing.
I hate Seeing.
I’m tired. I’m tired of asking why. The redundancy of people’s cruel actions is in my face, day, and night. Dad, Kay, please understand.
I can never rest, that’s what I’m trying to say. I just want to rest, have peace.
I told you about Her.
I know that you don’t like hearing about these things, but She tells me that She needs me, that She loves me. She knows about the pain that this may cause to those whom I love, but She says it will pass: She loves me, too.
She says that we can be together, that She can give to me what our wealth has not: peace.
She’s so beautiful, so kind, so warm. Please be happy for me. She gives me warmth, peace. She’s exceptionally intelligent: we have extraordinary conversations regarding anything and everything. I can talk to Her about anything, and She still loves me. I love Her.
I have my concerns, but She asks me if I want to stay here, in this place, like this, or be with Her. Forever. In peace. She says that we can rest together, in peace, forever.
To rest in peace forever with Her, as opposed to no rest, no peace. I'm so tired.
But She has shown me a way, a way to be with Her, the most glowingly bright, beautiful creature that I have ever encountered. Anywhere.
She says that it will only hurt for a few moments, then, we can be together.
And we can be happy. I can be happy.
I can finally know Happiness.
She says that She can give me Happiness.
She has become impatient.
All of my papers, account numbers, bank names, locations, Will, et cetera, documents of any significance are in the upper-right hand drawer of the bureau next to the desk in my office at my place. It will be unlocked. I believe everything is fairly self-explanatory, and I’ve already made you both joint beneficiaries on everything that I have here. I believe things will go smoothly- just have your I.D. and the certificate from the state when you go to close things out.
I love you.
Your Son, your Brother
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