Rosancranz

I prayed with all the tears I bled, that you’d come back from the dead

You stayed, despite the tears you bled, so I’ll come back from the dead

Drops so heavy they could have been rain

That night, I saw everything

I know what you were doing to you

Did you know, what you were doing to me?

A kiss, so false it had to be true

A kiss leaving me in agony

That night it all started

Something wicked in the garden

No thing slices like Apathy

No weight crushes like hostility

Seeing you and I so far apart

And watching how you stumbled

were hooks that ripped my heart

and the rest of me crumbled

That morning it had dared

Something wicked in the square

Please don’t hide behind your shame

And know, I’ve endured the same

Pressure penetrates your skull

All those hands stripping you naked

Alone and exposed before all

And wondering how you’ll make it

That day it had shadowed me

Something wicked in the city

If you would just allow

For me to help you now

Don’t fret that I’m carrying you

On this road to eternity

I had once needed help too

And he does not demand alacrity

That noon on the trail

Something wicked was doomed to fail

You tied me up

You nailed me down

You pierced me through

You jeered

And I fell silent

And I fell

Through that abyss

So I could rise

And bring you with me

Nothing wicked can stop me

I prayed with all the tears I bled, 
that you’d come back from the dead

You stayed, despite the tears you bled, 
so I’ll come back from the dead

The Speaker

The following is an excerpt from my YA manuscript that I've been working on since forever. I happen to like this passage, but I'm not sure why.

“You mustn’t try to prepare yourself for it,” her mother had said instead. “Know that this is not a test and there is no danger. Dispel your worries.”

            Akari was still rolling her eyes in memory of that answer as they followed the trail around a bend and down into a crevasse. A creek rippled at the bottom, feeding a large, drooping tree with bulbous knots. Its thick trunk was like a strongman holding up a world of branches, but as it had grown tired the leafless branches slipped from its grip and bent toward the ground.

            It looked sad, or so Akari thought. How could it not be when most of the trees around had long since dried up?

            “My daughter, this is the Speaker. We transplanted it here so that it might survive, but we do not think it is long for this world.” Arie took Akari’s hand and guided her to the base of the tree. “The Speaker speaks for Seele. When you’ve heard the Speaker, you’ve heard Seele, and that cements the bond.”

            Akari protested, “But I don’t have a bond to cement. I don’t know anything about this Seele. And I’m not full elf. Won’t that have an effect?”

            Eithne, the female elf who had loaned Akari the dress replied, “There is good reason why we did not answer your questions on the rite. You must partake as you are, and not as who you think you should be. Leave your concerns behind you and calm your thoughts.”

            Akari stared at the tree. Was it staring right back?

            Arie motioned for Akari to position herself on her knees, an arm’s length from the trunk. The elves surrounded the Speaker and muttered in the beautiful language Arie had spoken when she aided Mace. The words were in a lax cadence, with a rhythmic inflection strung throughout. Akari watched them and wished she understood what they were saying.

            “No,” her mother whispered. She took Akari’s hand and placed it on one of the knots. “Don’t mind them.” Arie drew some of the Speaker’s sap onto her thumb and smeared it across Akari’s forehead. “Do not mind anything.” Arie kissed her daughter on the head before joining the circle of elves around Akari and the Speaker.

            Akari swallowed. She had a dark feeling that they would be sitting there all night if they expected her to perform some sort of magic. They knew full well that she had not been raised an elf, that she still had no concept of Seele. It was not fair, and their reluctance to answer her questions only annoyed her.

            She grew impatient, tempted by the notion to just run for it, when the sap on her forehead began to warm, drawing her thoughts away from escape. The heat became almost uncomfortable when she smelled a fragrant earthiness. The smell filled her lungs, and when the air reached her brain, her body fell forward against the knot, her hand barely saving her face from the bark. She tried to push herself up, but couldn’t. She couldn’t move.

            After the paralysis came numbness, save for the burning on her forehead. She could not feel her lungs inhaling, and she panicked, but she could not even feel her heart race. A tiny bug crawling across the ancient bark of the Speaker was the last thing she saw before blindness set in.

            Akari cursed the elves in her mind. This was not the unconsciousness of sleep, but it was the helplessness that had plagued her her entire life. Her thoughts were frantic, wondering if all this were normal, or if she were an anomaly. The absence of her senses, of not being able to move—she knew no thing more terrifying. But soon, her thoughts were deafened by the absolute silence, and it beckoned her to be the same.

            Silent. Like she wasn’t there.

            Akari allowed herself to disappear. 

What's in a name

In French it’s agnelet—its Latin root is where you get the name Agnes from. It was one of the first livestock animals to be domesticated, and it has been integral to civilization ever since. The origins are thought to be the mouflon from Europe and Asia. Though its husbandry has been present the world over, today it is most closely associated with Australia, New Zealand, the British Isles, and South America. In Spanish they say “el cordero.” The ruminant not only provides meat, but fleece as well. The significance of fleece, of course, goes back to ancient times, as in “Jason and the Golden Fleece.” In Greek, the word is arni. Additionally, the arni, or probabato as the adult is called, has been used to forward science, most notably as a cloned specimen. The scientific name is Ovis Aries.

In the United States the raising of this livestock isn’t terribly common, and its existence is largely detached from secular society. In the church, the animal has special significance, since the son of God is given the title of Agnus Dei. This goes back to the Hebrew tradition of sacrificing the young animal to atone for sins. In Hebrew it’s called Rachel.

Hero of Agape

We had to write a love sonnet back in high school. I chose to write about a certain saint. Happy all saints!

Few times has our world beheld a hero,
when how crimson man’s heart can be is known.
Our blessing, a sister of Loreto,
graced the earth with a heart to melt cold stone.

A good hero does not, will not, rescue,
with the idea of rich future gain.
Our hero helped the ragged no one knew,
she helped heal the soul and calmed hunger’s bane.

But is her red heart enough, to follow
a will, that in this world offers nothing;
can her soul take the lives deeply hollow
and show that a smile means something?

What did she have, this sister, now mother,
which she gave full when she helped another?

Painting of the Silver Fox

“Wooweee, aren’t you a tall one?” my grandpa surely must have said when the 6’7” Indian walked through the door. He showed up at the Silver Fox to play some pool with his Yakama friends.
My grandpa owned the place. Most of his customers came from the bowling alley next door. When the alley closed up shop, so did my grandpa, and he moved on to other things. But this is still during the good years, somewhere in the seventies.
The Silver Fox had the works: bar, taps, pool tables, stools. Neon lights welcomed visitors and frequenters alike. The place wasn’t big, it wasn’t fancy. It’s just the stop the working man would make before getting home to his Lazy Boy. Not like there was anything else to do in Yakima, nor would anyone in Yakima want to do anything else.
The Indian picked up a pool cue, to which my grandpa must have said, “Don’t you go breaking that. I have a wife and two kids to feed.”
The Indian laughed. Everybody laughed at my grandpa’s jokes, his teasing, and his jolliness. When we went out in public with him –no joke –he knew everyone. And if he didn’t, he soon would.
So it really doesn’t come as any surprise that not only did he get to know this particular Indian, but that the Indian came to like him and his place enough to decorate it.
“You know what, Ernie,” the Indian must have said. “Taverns like this…they could use a touch of art, don’t you think?” Maybe he went on to share what significance the fox had in Native American mythology. He surely told my grandpa how he was an artist. It was how he made ends meet.
“Well, if you’re offering, I sure won’t say ‘no’.” My grandpa probably eyed the wall opposite the bar. “Yeah, right there. We could use a silver fox right there.”
The Indian would have followed his gaze. “Hmm, a big space, but I’ll fill it.”
“What? No, you don’t have to fill that whole thing. Just sketch me something out and I’ll frame it.”
The Indian would have set down his glass, his palm flat on the bar. “Not a sketch. A full, big painting. A gift for you, my friend. Next time I’m in town, I’ll bring it by.”
“I’ll finally be able to set my stools back up! Where’re you headin’ off to?”
The Indian took a drink, savoring it. “There was a casting call for a big, ugly Indian. Needless to say, I got the part.”
Then he must have slapped the table and started toward the door. “I don’t remember the exact title…something about a cuckoo’s nest. See you, Ernie.”

You need me. You hate the sound of my voice, but deep down, you want me all the same. There’s no one else you can imagine by your side, night after night. You count on me to be more accurate with my numerals than you are with your checkbook. Heed me, and your day will go as planned. Ignore me, fight me, throw me against the wall, and your hedonism will enact its own punishment.

I see it in your heavy lidded eyes how much you wish to destroy me, but you should know, that if but one of my brethren failed to perform, then it could mean lives. As for you, my failure could mean your livelihood. It could mean a black cloud above your head for days or weeks. But as for me, success could mean a dented wall and a broken LED display, and then, where would you be?

Sympathy for an alarm clock.

Most beautiful word

I think serenity is the most beautiful word in the English language. Maybe I’m cheating because it’s actually Latinate in origin, but really, if I chose a word that went so far back on the timeline that it’s definably Germanic, then I’d be stuck between cow and swine, and come on, those aren’t beautiful even you were in love with beef patties slapped between two slices of pig butt. But, you know, I may be partial because I know serenity means peace and just hearing it gives me peace of mind. I’d love to share this piece of my mind and spread the supreme song that is serenity to other solemn souls because to say it you practically have to sing. Yes, practically. It’s a practical word so not only is it beautiful but it serves a purpose. I like purpose.