Garlic, Onions & Ginger

"Do you remember that day?"

"What?"

"That day, back in Amsterdam?"

"My dearest dearest darling, do you know how many times we've been to Amsterdam? Imma need a little bit more than that."

"The first time, obviously."

"Ah, obviously. I'm still not a mind reader after all these years."

"But you remember, right?"

"Yes. Of course."

"What is the first thing you think of?"

"I guess biking down the channels, getting drinks, making each other laugh 'til we almost shit ourselves."

"You drank me under the table."

"Of course I fucking did!"

"And you remember that one morning?"

"Which?"

"With breakfast."

"Again, I'm gonna need more than that."

"Fried rice and an egg."

"Oh. Yeah, that was fucking great."

"Yeah, that was a good fucking breakfast."

".... sooooo you gonna make me some breakfast or just sit there like a pretty fuck boi?"

Dancing Queen

Dancing Queen (feat. Alita Moses) - Live in Stockholm by Jacob Collier & Alita Moses, released 2022

He stood in the kitchen, perplexed at the options that expanded before him. It really was only three ingredients, how could it be this complicated? A splash of this, a shake of that later and a semblance of an evening drink arrived on the counter. Then the familiar creak resounded from the living room like a whistle that brings sheep to pasture. Wordlessly the same three bottles came out of the cabinet and another contrived cocktail came to rest upon the countertop.

She was curled up in her usual way. The wicker chair liked to poke through the pillows but it had always seemed to meld to her shape in some unexplainable way. She was cross-legged, pencils, pens and paint already strewn about her. Who wanted an art studio when a chair could provide all the space you needed? Or at least that’s what she told him when he inquired.

Something began to evolve upon the paper underneath her ministrations. He walked, with every step on the side of his feet to attempt not to disrupt the revelatory moment. Silently a deep red liquid-filled glass was placed by her side. He evaded cracks, crevices and squeaky boards on the way back to the couch to establish his perch.

She drew. She painted. She was herself.







She looked up suddenly, a furious sense about her. Her eyes quested about her and landed upon a glass with slightly melted ice cubes. Her eyes snapped to the couch.

“Hey!”

“Hey.”

“When did you drop this off?”

“Like 10 minutes ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, dummy?”

“You seemed quite entranced.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Of course.”







He sipped his glass. She sipped hers.







“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Remember when we used to dance?”

“What do you mean used to?”

“No, I mean like forever ago. When we danced like no cared and basically broke our knees in half to do it?”

“Yeah. I remember you could barely keep up.”

“Ha. I remember you always forgetting a hair tie.”

“Yeah. But you liked it.”

“Yup… still do."

She looked him right in the eyes at that moment and he saw a spark, no a fire in them.

“What’s stopping us from dancing now?”

“Um, it’s like 10pm on a Tuesday.”

“I’m not sure I understand your point dummy.”

She walked across the room, creaking every board on the way and stood above him on the couch with hands outstretched.

“Dance with me.”

“Ok.”

Tides of Time

The Watchmaker by Woodlock released 2021

She stood upon the tides of time with yesterday and tomorrow the rising and falling tide. A moment of unconscious serenity within the hurricane of emotion. A breath of air met with a breath of smoke. A touch of salt melded with the footsteps that brought her here. She stood. And time washed over her.

She’s been told of these shores, warned of them, promised them. Her mom spoke of the dangers that lay upon these tides. Waves that draw you into the past, into the disarray. Her grandad told her of the sparkle that lay upon these sands. I suppose both truths were honest. The mainland had offered her a life much like her mother’s. One of failed promises, betrayed love, and burnt hopes. The mainland had shown her life, or what her mother vehemently called, “the greatest bitch of all”. It had shown her pain. Her mother had donned the glasses of pain and worn them since her youth. Pain, pain, pain. Her mother’s reality. I hope that it doesn’t become hers.

Her grandad had seen pain. Pain of a visceral nature. Pain that comes with the whistles of falling metal. Pain that comes with friends present one moment and gone the next. Pain that comes with fulfilling the maniacal orders of those who can’t see the tides at their feet. Those who repeat and repeat and repeat. Her grandad had seen pain. But pain was not the lens that he chose. He had come to these shores, after the blood and carnage had been washed from his skin. He came to these shores and gazed into the past, gazed into the present, gazed into the beyond. And he saw more. Pain, yes, but more. 

She stood upon the tides of time. Her pain was unique as those of anyone who’s feet meet the wake. It pulled. It pushed. And she stood. Pain, pain, pain. But also, a glimmer.

I like to believe that she may have found more. All I know is that the waves pulled and pushed. And she stood. 

Time Rages Ever On

A day for remembering strangers

For recalling sorrow
For remembering joy
For everything

Let everything happen

The good and bad alike
Because time turns
Good to bad — Bad to good

And in time
Those words themselves
Begin to lose meaning

It’s all about which moment in time you sample

It’s all just droplets in a raging sea
Sample what you will
But the ocean will always continue to rage

Yesterday they’re strangers
Today they’re everything
Tomorrow they’re strangers

The sea rages ever on

Push as you will
Fight with what breath you have
Time rages ever on

From love to strangers
From life to death
Times rages ever on

Let it rage

Wet Socks

        A small car, twisting through cobbled streets, winding down alleys and one-ways. And the sky rumbled. A couple, huddled in the back seat, eyes drooping, passports safely stowed in pockets. And the sky ignited. A house, room enough for two travelers to find comfort in, but small enough to keep the two close. And the sky cried.

        The two hooded figures pushed out of the car, tip already delivered, and met the sky’s welcome. Thunder, lightning, rain, and a cold, “hello”. Bags in hand the two scrambled up to the house that was just the right size. It was a code or maybe keys to get in and out of the sky’s greeting. The couple pushed open the door, bringing quarts of water in with them. The clean, dry floors quickly were introduced to discarded coats, muddied boots, drenched beanies, and wet socks. Suitcases were quickly dug into to find replacements for the wet mess that the man and woman wore.

        Steam began wafting from the tiled room into where the man arranged the clean clothing. A small dresser began to again fulfill its purpose as he allocated drawers for each of the suitcases contents. Then the kettle needed to be tended to, plugs needed to be discovered, and wet clothes needed to be relocated. A voice broken through his checklist. An invitation, the type that isn't refused unless one is clueless or simply didn’t hear correctly. Wafting steam and an invitation. More wet clothes found their way onto the floor, checklist discarded for the time being.

        The sky continued its theatrical performance above the town full of cobbled streets, winding alleys, and one-ways. But inside the house that was just the right size, with wet socks laying beside the shower, two people found warmth in the most simple of ways.

Weathered Hands

        The mahogany always had to be polished. Didn’t matter how many patrons made their way to the stools for a drink, the mahogany always had to be polished. The glasses, some for beer, others for other drinks, but mostly just mugs for beer. Those needed cleaning too. And the floors turned grimey after looking away for the barest fraction of a second. All those people bringing in the mud and muck of the outside world. This hadn’t been his choice. A little farm out in the highlands would have been preferable. Even a little shack on the edge of a cliff would’ve sufficed. Yet here he was, tending to someone else’s dream.
        In the corner, men with long beards rolled back and forth in laughter in their open-bottomed clothing. Mostly locals and a few the man hadn’t seen before. But mostly locals. The man pulled back from the bar for a moment, into the pantry to gather up a few odds and ends for the midday meal. The framed visage of the bar’s founding proprietor lay above the piles of dried meats, staring down at the barkeep as he scrounged up ingredients. Older brothers have a way of staring silently, but with intent disapproval.
        Sausages in a stew, bread interwoven with herbs, and another beer to go along. Midday meal as produced by a man wishing he were a different man. The patrons came, a few at a time, to gather up their portion of the slop the barkeep dished out onto wood serving ware. Everyone knew a menu was a relic of the past in a place like this. Well, everyone except those two out-of-towners.

        They strolled in, wanting some gluten-vegan-lactose free bullshit. After a few stern words they settled with a few lentils from the pantry and ran back to their booth, tails between their legs. The barkeep sniffed, looked heavenward, and returned to polishing. It’d been 20 minutes since the mahogany’s top had seen a rag. Too long by his standards.
        The day continued, the hipster assholes pranced on to their next dandy adventure and the bar moved and flowed as it should. Old men with nothing to do but drink and laugh, young men done with an early day of hard labor, women cackling and joking too, just with wittier jokes than the men. Back to normal, as it should be.
        Evening meal came and went. Drinks were served, jokes were overheard. The men and women moved about each other with seasoned ease, each knowing the buttons of the next. Soon the patrons milled slowly out the doors, bantering and bickering. Still the man polished that mahogany. And finally, when night fell and the man tucked himself in bed he lay and readied himself for another day of cleaning that damned fucking mahogany.

Embers

        Fascination.
        The crackle of the new logs, moisture releasing, twigs bursting alight. The smell of chocolate and mallow slowly cooking amidst the coals. The warning of heat and careful respect for this untamable mistress. The creation of memories that will last until the sun sets its final time. That first campfire.

        Fantasy.
        Huddling up next to your first, giddy at finally an excuse to be close to them. The world seems to melt away as faces are illuminated against the raw heat of the fire. Marshmallows are only an excuse to give something to them. A guitar finds its way to the fireside. Chords are strummed poorly, songs with quiet undertones of romance. A hopeful beauty in that bright moment.

        Family.
        The fire gets built by the kids now. The kids that are barely kids anymore. First the little tipi with bits of torn newspaper underneath. A smattering of what dry grass could be found and finally a spark. Soon tin foil parcels are set amidst the kindled coals to cook the night’s meal. Stories being told, exaggerated and retold in fanciful new ways. Silly accents, ridiculous jokes, and warm smiles that rival the fire’s heat.

        Friends.
        Old glasses, collected over the years, now filled with mint leaves, lemon slices, and the sophisticated brother of vodka. Stories among old and new friends, the fire pulling them all together in a half-conspiratorial circle. Eyes flicker, reflecting the spontaneous spirit of the flames. A moment of simple perfection, hands held, smiles natural and genuine.

        Future. 

        The logs have burnt away, now just embers, whispering their last crackles. Two seats and two mugs of tea. Two shapes, silhouetted against the night. Two figures that have blended into one picture, painted by the quiet sparks on the night’s canvas. Two hearts waiting out the embers.

The Dance

        The vehicle plunged into the wall of white in front of it. For a moment everything else around the car disappeared and the two inside were totally alone in the world, wrapped in a cocoon of fog. Past red spires, past brave runners, and camera-holding tourists. They emerged from the cascade of fog, a silver blip among all those traveling southward. Up the twists and turns, the ocean a steady presence out their window. And then home. Or what had become an ancient home to them amidst the aged canvas, polished stones, and fabled pieces.
        The car came to a halt at the crest of the hill. The man turned to the woman as she pushed the car into park.

“You ready?”
“Just a moment.”
“Ok, yeah. No worries.”



“Do you want to walk first?”
“Uh, sure. That sounds lovely.”
“Ok, let’s do that.”

The couple pushed their doors open simultaneously and met each other wordlessly, hands clasping together. The woman led them up the hillside, past trees and stones, out to where the ocean’s breadth expanded before them. She stopped at the cliff’s edge, wind wrapping around her, attempting to tug her hair from the handkerchief that held it steady.

“Everything good?”
“Yeah. I needed to just be for a moment.”
“Yeah, for sure. We can just be. I’m happy to just hold your hand and look at the waves.”
“Ok. Thanks.”



“Actually. . . Do you want to dance with me here for a moment?”
“Yes. Yes, I would. I’d like that very much.”

An Early Morning

        In the early hours of the morning, when frost covered the grass and the trees still rested, a small human pulled off their covers. As two feet touched the floor, cold rushed up to meet the exposed skin. The child shivered and pulled their blanket close around them and ventured from the room. In the adjacent room embers faded slowly and the fireplace grew darker and darker. The child found their way to the couch and pulled the blankets close about them to ward off the night. And from this perch the girl spied stars biding their last farewell as the sun chased them westward. She sat, bundled up, watching as the world slowly came to light.

        She shifted in bed. Today was one of those few days where she allowed herself to sleep until the sun had at least said it’s first “hello’s”. She reached her arm to the side, questing for what she expected to be a warm body. Instead she found a few pillows where a human should have been. Where is that man? Doesn’t he know that this is prized cuddling time? She pushed herself up against the backboard with a few pops resounding in the process. First glasses, then socks, because otherwise her feet would not make it through winter. She pulled aside the sheets to meet the chilly embrace of morning and shuffled towards the wafting smell of coffee.

        Normally he slept like a rock, nothing and no one being able to wake the grumpy ogre whilst he slept. But tonight he’d awoken to the pitter patter of small feet moving across the hardwood floor. He read the time on a watch sitting on the bedside table. Why can’t this child sleep like a normal human being? Groggy and only awake in a technical sense, the man slapped the side table until his fingers found a pair of glasses. The world sharpened and he pushed himself from the protection of the covers. She hadn’t stirred. Hopefully one of us can get some REM. He charted a course through the house until before him he spied a small figure curled up on the couch. “Hey princess. You trying to learn a thing or two about astrology?”

        Coffee with almond creamer in hand, now maybe mostly alive, the woman ventured from the kitchen towards the sounds of quiet whispers. As she turned the corner before her she found the man and the girl bundled up in a blanket, eyes glued to the glass. He was telling her fanciful stories again, about the squirrel’s complicated relationship with the neighboring raccoons and the on-going novela of the woodsfolk. She shook her head softly and sat with the two loves of her life on that cold winter morning.

Aperture

There was a lot she left behind when she stepped off the plane.

More than just America, or work, or normalcy. She left behind the past, the chains that had tried to hold her down.

She stepped off the plane, met by heat, met by a home she had forgotten.

And as she stepped into the land she had long been waiting to return to, she knew in that moment that she was home.

A lens opened to accept the light of the world.

A heart opened to accept the light of the world.

And she knew again, she was home.

Home amidst the hearts of those she had loved before and had continued to love, despite the miles.

So she set to the work before her.

Capture the light. The light of the sun. The light in their eyes.

The light she didn't expect to find, though, was that which was reflected in the eyes of those she saw.

For in their eyes, her own light was reflected. The light she often ignored or forgot.

She sought the light in the eyes of others.

And discovered that the same light lived in her.

An Anemologist by Nature of Listening

A Noiseless Patient Spider by Walt Whitman, released 1891
Fog by Radiohead, released 2003


Stinson, 1971

       Fog lifted off the waves, drifted the few feet and commingled with the steam rising from her mug. The waves licked at heels and the sun nipped at closed eyes, tempting them to reopen. But a moment longer, that’s what she needed. A moment longer in memory. It was the seagull that brought her back, pulled her from the recesses and asked that she rejoin today. Seagulls have a very poor knack for identifying melancholy.

       The seascape appeared once again before her, inescapable. The gull nipped at her heels this time, bold for one so small. But for all its inability to identify a sad soul, it did know a friendly one. The gull scuttled back as she leaned down, pulling a handful of bread from her left pocket. As the gull ate she watched and pulled a handful of parchment from her right pocket.

       Crisscrossed in the sand she wrote on the paper. The seagull ate. And they were this way for some time. I don’t remember who finished first, the gull or the girl, but at some point they both rose. The gull moved on to find other friendly souls and the girl walked to the waves.

       The first paper that she placed on the face of the ocean didn’t melt away immediately as one might expect. It held its integrity for a few eye blinks before being taken in. Heavy paper stock, perhaps. A few eye blinks. Then she placed the second, then the third and more. Each lasted a few eye blinks. The ink stained paper held for a moment then took its words into the depths. I can’t tell you what was written on each sheet. But it might not be the words that matter, but the action of writing and releasing them.

       “Filament, filament, filament”, as he said.

       Soon all the written pages had been gifted to the waves. So she sat, silent as she had been in placing each sheet, but perhaps in a different silence. Not the silence of remembrance, no, something else. More the silence of the present. The silence that surrounds the waves, the trees, the mountains, the valleys, and all between. The noiseless force that moves boats, forms valleys and lifts hearts. She sat in this silence and nothing else. She sat with this silence for years. Listening to it, knowing it, loving it.

       And so she learned to catch the wind.

He Held It All Within

He held it all within

The expanse of the cosmos
The gaze of the deer
The crash of the waves

He held these moments

The tears for a woman
The love for a woman
The affection for a woman

He held eternity

The movement of the sea
The heartbeat of the trees
The stillness of the sky

He held it all within

The pain of then
The confusion of now
The hope of tomorrow

He held it all and asked,

“Am I allowed to live?”

Fives Years and Another Day

i’ve often wondered
why has Life chosen
to give me the people
it has

is it my
Choice

or is it simply
Life

"what if all the things i've done
were just attempts at earning Love
cause the hole inside my heart is
stupid deep"

jon bellion said that
that was my “break up song”
i think i was just trying to decide
Life or Choice

now i wonder it again
but in a far different context
one i didn’t expect i’d ever know again
the First person

it seems rude to attribute
numbers but First has to mean
something
right

First a love

broken by my young dumb hands
Seconds a love
broken by other young dumb hands

and now after 5 years
another day to think
of the First
of Life or Choice

i still have dumbs hands
they simply have more hair
more scars
more tears on them

Life
Choice
i’m not sure which it is
that brought me here

i do think Love
regardless of the result
is more than emotion
or a feeling

not to say i believe in the one
but i find Love to be significant
and if i can
i’d like to not squander it

i don’t ask for promise
or trust
or much of anything
really

friendship would be nice

Owl

A rectangle of light shone, illustrating the infinite negative space surrounding it.
It was a end-of-the-tunnel or baby-opening-it's-eyes-for-the-first-time kind of light.
It was luminous and purely unique, because well, everything else was dark.

It was blinding to me.

I had seen this rectangle many times, though it seemed indistinguishable from the darkness back then.
Eventually there was a soft, pulsing glow that began to reverberate through its frame.
A glow that grew over years of slow movement.

My wide eyes peered through the window.

The man inside the windowed light was sitting, metal keys tapping beneath his moving fingers.
A woman appeared from I know not where. She watched the focused man.
He turned and laid paper in her hands. Her eyes raced and then she smiled.

I wondered at the two.

The light grew in its luminosity and the woman appeared again.
She sat. Then shook. Her face reflected the light with its dampness.
But the light didn't fade. The man entered and hugged her. The light didn't fade.

By now I was captivated by the interplay of these creatures.

I noted the steady glow. They both came into view.
They were conversing it seemed. He stared at her, her at him.
His face streached forward and they connected. The light exploded.

My wide eyes blinked quickly in swift adjustment to the light.

The light began to gain quality and clarity and shape.
It curled, weaved, pulsed, billowed, flamed, blinded.
Then the man rested a knee on the ground and spoke.

It is difficult for even one with so keen an eye for light as myself to describe how the light changed next.

Pine & Lights

Through the rear view mirror he watched the exhaust, vivid against the dark night, rise into the air. He turned the keys to the left and the machine fell asleep. The silence of the very early morning became absolute. He sat until the heat had left the vehicle and he could see his own breath before him.

He tried to start thinking, to get his brain to move to make him unbuckle his seat belt, to crawl out of the car and into the house. But his face simply contorted and tears began leaking from his eyes. He reached down to fight the seat belt off him but he couldn't see with his eyes awash with liquid. Great heaving sobs began to set in as he began to internally yell at himself for crying and demanding that his body pull it together and stop being tired. The man's hands gripped the steering wheel and his knuckles grew white from the strain. He leaned his head forward and gasped. The car's horn sounded as his head bumped the steering wheel. The man jolted up right. The crying immediately stopped. Within seconds he was out of the car listened for any peep from the house. He quickly pulled his carabiner from his belt loop and unlocked the door noiselessly. He stepped onto the hardwood floor again listening for any noises from up stairs. No sound. The man sighed.

There was no need to turn any lights on inside the house. Every wall was covered with strings of lights, all which were constantly on. And of course they would be on tonight of all nights. The man sat on the worn couch and placing his satchel on the ground as he did. His hands found the blanket on the couch and he curled up looking sideways at the living room's masterpiece. It was this bright shining marriage of light and nature. It was perfect.

His view of the tree grew smaller and smaller as his lids fell lower and lower. As his mind began to work again he thought about everything that had to be done. He still hadn't finished wrapping everything. He needed to go out and buy food for tomorrow. But he wanted it to be perfect, to be special. But he knew he was going to be tired and couldn't give all that he wanted to and hated that. And it all began to pile on again.

He breathed.

I just need to sleep.
Just sleep.









*Thud*
*Thud*
*Thud*
*Thud*

The man opened his eyes just in time to see two children mid flight. He responded as quickly as he could, catching the girl in his arms and allowing the boy to slam into his abdomen.

"Daddy! You're home!"
"Why are you on the couch?"
"Were you trying to catch Santa?"
"We were going to stay up to see if we could catch him."
She whispered into his ear, "Mom said we had to sleep though. But we still tried to stay up."
"Yeah, but we fell asleep. We'll see him next year though."

The man blinked the blurriness in his eyes away and looked at the children on top of him. He smiled. His eyes smiled too.

"Well mom was smart to tell you to sleep, but she had me sleep out here so that I could keep an eye on Santa and make sure he got you the right presents."

The girl and boy squealed when he said "presents".

The boy and girl jumped off his lap and began looking at all the presents around the tree. The man looked over and noticed several presents with "From Dad" written on them. He smiled a soft smile.

He pulled himself off the couch and walked into the kitchen as the kids still guessed at the contents of the packages. He put on the kettle and turned the coffee grinder on. He opened up the fridge and saw that it was stock full of all the preparations for a delicious feast. He smiled softly again.

With two mugs in his hands he walked back into the living room then up the stairs. The boy was shoving his arms into the tree trying to fish out the green army men he had hidden in there previously.

The man opened up the bed room door and placed the mugs of coffee on the bedside table. He nudged the woman. She rolled over, eyes squinting.

"Babe. I thought we were going to wait 'til 7."

The man leaned over and kissed her.

"Oh, wow. Good morning."
"Good morning darling. The kids are already up and ready to go, but I've got coffee."
"Mmmmmm."

The woman pulled herself upright and reached for her coffee.
The man stared at her as she sipped her drink.

"What?"
"I love you."
"I love you too."
"Merry Christmas."

She smiled.

"Merry Christmas."

Un Cœur Tranquille

Grey and brown ruffled upwards as the wind had it's way with his hair.

Hands supporting a cup of steeping leaves.

Breath slow- steady- calm.

Feet burrowed into the sand in search of warmth.

Chair, a long wood plank that had spent it's life drifting among the waves.

Peace in this life.

She appeared around the bend, wrapped in fog and mist. His eyes rested upon her moving frame as she trekked nearer. From tad pools with sea anemones, trees with high branches, and cliffs with gapping drops she came.

His gaze shifted for a moment as a seagull inched closer to his log intrigued by the prospect of food.

Empty-handed the boy gave the bird what he had: conversation.

"Good evening, friend. How's the wind been up there? I'm sorry I was so thoughtless not to bring a snack to share with you. I hope this doesn't bode poorly for me in your eyes."

The bird's eyes just rested on the strange boy as he continued.

"I don't know if you'd like tea, but you're welcome to it. I was thinking to share it with that girl who's coming nearer, but I'd be pleased if you tried some."

No movement, it simply watched him speak.

"Well, alright. She doesn't always want tea either. I suppose I've more a liking to it than some. That's alright though, we all have our preferences. She, for example, likes... Oh!"

The bird alighted at that moment.

The boy turned and realized the girl had walked right up while he'd been talking.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"How's that seagull doing?"

"Fine. He didn't fancy a sip of tea, though. Would you like some?"

"No, I'm fine. Thanks dear."

"Of course."

She sat.

And they continued to sit, silently, looking at the sea.

Hiatus

"I have to go."

"Ok."

"You're alright with this, right?"

"Of course."

"Please, I need you to be honest with me; are you okay with this?"

"I am. Trust me. I get it. It's really alright."

"Ok. I just needed to be sure."


~~~


She sat down.
These conversations weren't fun. As she had spoke to him there wasn't a resting feeling of conclusion or understanding. There was a gnawing feeling.
It was somewhere between the spike of a brutal migraine and the annoyance of hunger.

He sat down.
He understood her. It made sense, it really did, but knowing why something is the case doesn't change whether it hurts or not. His was an aching feeling.
It was between the wearisome strain of an old neck and the dizziness of sleepiness.

They sat.


~~~


"This is good."

"Yeah... yeah it is."

"And I'm okay with it, I promise."

"I'm glad."

"But it still sucks."

"It really does."

Considering Mountains

        The biennial trip down one state below had arrived. It was Heartland's ever-dispassionate argument that "Oregon is just a slightly-less-wet version of Washington" that dominated the first half hour of the voyage's conversation.
        "Sigh . . ." Heartland released her final exasperation and turned her eyes outside the hatchback's slanted backseat window. Her eyes remained unfocused as the car drove on past the repetitive terrain. In the opposite seat Rylan mirrored her posture, looking out at the passing mountains. He held his finger on the small window letting it slowly rise and fall to trace the outline of the mountains. The grubby finger he held on the window dirtied the glass as he drew the valley's edge. Rylan's eyes were set on the trees atop the ridges, surpassing the grime of the window. An enamoured smirk stretched Rylan's face in response to the green.
        "I think there's some snow on that peak" noticed Rylan.
        "Really?" came Heartland's feigned excitement.
        "Yeah! Just right over there. See?" Rylan pointed ecstatically with a little jump muffled by the seatbelt.
        "Wow. That's uh-maaaaaazing because we neeeeever see any of that upstate." Heartland opened her mouth wide in satirical awe.
        "Hey! The snow is cool!"
        "Oh yes. It's cold all right."
        "Come on, sis'. Don't you know that every snow flake is different? That means this snow can't be the same as our snow. It's different. You say you want something different, right?"
        "Mmm. Sure. This is precisely what I had in mind: piles of rocks with frozen water on top of them."
        "Don't be smart with me!" Rylan squeecked with an effortful frown.
        "Ok. I'll be dumb with you," she made a face with her tongue half out of her mouth then snapped back, "Seriously, you need to stop copying the 'rents."
        "Why do you call them that?"
        "Because they're rentals, duh."
        Rylan's brow furrowed.
        "What is that supposed to mean?"
        "Above your pay grade, kiddo."
        "My name is Rylan."
        "Ry, the mountains and snow are great, mmkay?"

        The landscape passed.

        "Are you excited about the cabin then?" came Rylan's considered question.
        "Very excited. And I'm so glad that I was given a voice in choosing the location for our family  vacation," she glanced at the front seats.
        "I'm most excited to go play in the cool fort-bunker we made."
        "I doubt it's still there, but yeah, that was quaint."
        Rylan smiled.
        "Yeah. The trees are great there. There's Charles and Gregory, the Red Pines, right? And, uhh, Todd, yeah, Todd the Spruce."
        "They're real chums."
        "Yeah! I love vacation."
        "I'm glad Ry, I'm glad."

Requiem

The twigs poked up at her legs and the damp leaves soaked into her jeans, but she sat on the wooded ground still. The sea stretched out on and on before her wavering eyes. Her gaze traveled out across the waves yet the horizon pushed farther up to keep her from seeing the edge. The girl watched the ocean with a thin sweater draped from her frame. She let the breeze rip through her as it pushed up the hill, to remind her she had bones and blood, not just fumes.

Puffs wafted from her circled mouth and spun in the air. This way and that they flew and then sailed into dissipation. She didn't watch the ever-moving smoke. Her eyes lay on the sea.

Please just go talk to him!

no.

I get it! You’re confused, Damn it! But stop being a pussy by letting this be you!

why?

You have meaning with him. He can help!

screw me over and break my heart more likely

Or help you! Why do you hate him!

i don’t.

You sure as hell act like it.

i just don’t know.

Well obviously!

shut up.

She rose from her soaked seat. Stepped forward to the tree next to her and hoisted her body up onto a branch and sat again. Her perch revealed the sand to her. She looked at the crashing waves as they broke again and again on the billions of grains. The wind pushed her and she let it, only holding on enough to not fall from her fragile branch.

The girl let more puffs out into the breeze. Now she watched them. They rose and fell and after a few twists faded into the clear whipping wind. They kept her thoughts for a few moments. They amused her: their short life’s conceived each as a side-effect of her living life. In and out of existence in a blimp that she would soon forget.

there’s something poetic about that.

There’s something pathetic about you!

sigh…

Go!

no.

Do you want to help yourself?

i am.

Oh, right whatever you say depressed loner.

mmmhmm.

GO!

not right now.

Get up.

shut up please, i’m trying to enjoy the views.

The trees around her swayed back and forth from the wind with increased ferocity as the moon rose higher and brighter. She pushed herself a little bit back into the folds of the tree’s arms to escape the weather’s brutal onslaught. She cupped her hands slightly around her cigarette, burning her hands slightly with the dwindling fire, but taking the scorching heat as opposed to the relentless cold.

You can’t even see! Get out of here. No one’s going to chase you down here.

maybe not.

More than maybe! You make them think you want to be alone. You’re stupid.

i think they’ll see

No. No they really really won’t!

fine then.

You don’t even fucking care about anything! You’re just here to feel pain, damn it!

whatever.

Her eyes blinked quickly. The girl’s free hand rubbed her temples loosely. She was frozen.

But she broke from the thoughts and the cold long enough to pull her way down from the tree and begin off away from the beach.

Finally! See, if you want something you have to chase it.

i’m just cold

Right, it’s always the Physical stuff that’s the problem.

you’re a bitch.

You’re one to talk!

shut up and let me think

You Are!

damn it just let it go.

Let what go?

let me go!

Fine.

fine.

She sniffled but the cold tossed away the potential tear. She pushed on through the cold and the dark. The trees had lost their shadows, everything was misty and very not-there.

just keep breathing. don’t let up.

She kept walking.

“Francesca! Hey are you still out here?”

he’s here? he came out here? wait wait wait, really? why? no no no, where is he?

“I’m over her,” the girl faintly shouted.

She walked towards his voice. Suddenly out of the darkness he stood right in front of her. She looked up at him. Her pulled her in and hugged her.

“What are you doing out here? It’s freezing.”

“I was just thinking. Sorry to make you worry.”

The Tree House Effect

        The sky proved gray on the brisk morning. Heartland sat inside staring out the window at the dreary and slow moving clouds. She looked at them with blank expression, not wanting to dignify the clouds with her emotion. She knew they were watching and she wasn’t about to slip up and let them get to her.
        Heartland had been to San Francisco once when she was four. It had been for a “family business trip” her father had said. It was a weird trip. But ever since she went there, people always said that she had “left her heart in San Francisco.” She thought those people were stupid. Heartland figured they must know nothing of human anatomy. All the same, she took after her mother. She loved the sun.
        So when the skies turned gray and dripped then dried, then dripped then dried, Heartland wanted to stay far from the front door and simply sit and have her staring contest with the bleak sky.
        Rylan ran in with a burst of energy and an aftertaste of mischief. But Rylan was Rylan, and he always proved that his head could stay between his shoulders. He had a gleeful smile about him, because his heart was far far away from the “Golden State.”
        Heartland scooted over to make room for Rylan’s predictable bound onto the window seat. He smashed his face against the window, in the way that your nose goes all wibbly wobbly. Rylan breathed his hot breathe onto the window and made a little smiley face. He turned to his sister,
        “Don’t be all glum, Heartland. Have you ever thought about why the rain is wonderful?”
        “Oh, plenty of times. But have you ever thought of why the rain isn’t wonderful?”
        “No. I never needed to.” Heartland gave a smiling sigh and turned her face slightly back towards the window.
        “Ha! I made you smile.”
        “Yeah, but only because I was laughing at how dumb you can be.”
        “Well, if liking smiles is dumb, then I’ll gladly be labeled dumb ‘til the day I die.” Rylan lifted up his chest and crossed his arms in short defiance. He couldn’t quite wipe the smile off his face though.
        “Who have you been listening to? You don’t talk like that.”
        Rylan smiled bigger now,
        “I heard Dad talk like that. But I don’t think he was talking about smiles, or being dumb. And Dad can’t be dumb anyway.” Heartland smiled again.
        “You did it again! See! Smiling is better. Happy is better. Rain is better!”
        “Well, some of that is true.”

        Heartland sat in another staring match. This time her opponent was white, not gray. Her foe had red battle paint down its whole body. It stared at her with evil intent. Finally she reached for her pencil and began to write.
        “Napoleon Bonaparte was the Emperor of France for 11 years, he was the abolisher of feudalism, and the idea of a “Napoleon Complex” was understandably based off his misrepresented life. Napoleon, born the 15th of August in 1769, grew up in a noble Italian family from Corsica. An interesting fact about him is…”
        “Hey Heartland!” Her pencil stopped moving and she looked up from the paper to notice her brother’s call.
        “Yeeees, Rylan?” She asked in legato tone.
        His small head leaned around the door, “Come outside!”
        “Rylan, I have a paper to write. And it’s raining!”
        “Heartland, please! It’s important. I really really need your help.”
        Heartland gave out an exaggerated sigh, “Right now?”
        “Yes! Come quick,” Rylan replied and then his head dipped away from sight. Heartland slowly rose from her seat and left Napoleon on the table. She made her way to the door.
        “Heartland, where are you?”
        “I’m getting my coat!”
        “Leave it, come now!” Heartland began to hurry slightly, thinking that there might actually be something that Rylan needed help with. She walked outside, the cold grabbed at her, she ran to her brother to keep away from it.
        Rylan was sitting near a tree, crouched down. Heartland rubbed her arms and impatiently asked, “Ok, Rylan, what do you need?” Her brother looked up and her.
        “I need you to come up in the tree with me.”
        “Rylan, do you actually need help with something or not?”
        “Pleeeeeease!” Rylan fake-whined at his sister.
        “Fine! But then I need to rush back to my paper.” The two of them in turn climbed the wood pieces that were nailed to the tree. They slowly ascended into the leaves and then clambered their way up onto the wood planks that were molded around the tree.
        Heartland felt the temperature change from the insulated warmth that the tree provided. She made sure not to mention it. Rylan sat across from her and looked just right at her face with a silly smile.
        “What?” Heartland asked after he stared for five or so moments.
        “Nothing. I’m just happy that you’re happy?”
        “Oh? And why am I happy right now?”
        “Because you’re here and you have a brain.”
        “Mmm, riiiight. I may have a brain, but I’m not psychic. What are you talking about?”
        “You remember when mom would bring us sandwiches after dad first built it? Remember the little bucket we had to send up food or send down messages? Remember that?”
        “Yes, I remember all that.”
        “Then you’re happy, right?”
        “Umm, I guess.”
        “I guess, Or you are?”
        “Rylan, stop. It’s whatever. Stop worrying about me. I’m happy. See, I’m smiling.”
        “Don’t whatever me.”
        “Oh, and now you’re copying Mom, eh?”
        “Yeah, because mom is always right.”
        “Okay, Rylan. Whatever you say.” Heartland rolled her eyes then set them back on her little brother who looked right at her. He just stared for a while.
        Heartland opened her mouth,
        “I… Okay. I’ll try to smile more. You happy?”
        “Only if you are.” Heartland smiled. She crawled over the creaky wood and sat on her knees in front of her brother. She reached for Rylan and pulled him into a hug. Heartland lightly spoke in his ear,
        “I’m smiling now, Rylan."