J.A. Pak's Blog, page 5

Growth

Uterine fibroids. Growing like poppies. Hard, flat, oval, heavy. Eggs. Knots (long unbreakable knits of frustration, suppression). One convulses, desperate somersaults. Another forces itself like an alien birth exploding. (Craggy underneath — or is it my dreams).

Dream of a pale stone breaking the skin, emerging.

Dream: sliced like thin scallop disks.

Woman in miniature.

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I’ve become very proactive in my dreams, saying what needs to be said, channeling math geniuses in times of need, lecturing, screaming (if warranted), ranting — while awake — it’s indifference; battles won and lost are battles repeated, will repeat while dreams are disconnected and end and maybe that’s life too and we need scissors to remove narrative, gene splice out of existence that fantasy of continuity only at the end of the day what’s there but indifference.

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I clench my jaw at night like a bad actor. Also during the day. As I age there is no difference, night and day Petri dish of low-grade anxiety, a clench prep for those little assaults that cleanse the inside out of a perfect day.

‘Growth’ was first published in Gone Lawn.

Growth was originally published in Triple Eight Palace of Dreams & Happiness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Fantasm

Artwork by J.A. Pak

I

Nick confided, that night they were about to go and he was desperate for Sophy to believe, Nick confided he had a guiding angel. And that the angel was beautiful — he’d seen her one night — three or four o’clock so that it was really morning — not with wings, but with a light, a rainbow light which was scattered, maybe she herself was a scattering of light, an infinity of universes caught like the opening rays of sunlight.

(“I’ve never told anyone — ” He smiled, looking deep into Sophy so that she was like the light.)

Nick was an insomniac and rarely slept. Like Sophy.

(They’d find each other, in the early mornings, like two wanderers recognizing some common place in the other but wary and hesitant. Finally, curiosity — and loneliness — gave them a bridge. Usually just sitting quietly together for an hour or two as the morning opened her skirt.)

Nick didn’t trust sleep.

“You miss so much.”

He’d always felt, from birth, time spinning him, faster and faster. He could just harness that growing momentum, ride the chaotic stream, omnipotent.

“What’s there to miss?”

Nick looked at Sophy, all exasperated — as if she knew and wouldn’t admit it.

“All this!”

He spread out his arms and tilted his head and the universe popped open. The sun was just coming up, but low inside the horizon so you couldn’t see any of it. Instead, there was a shimmer in the sky, silver before the yellows and the pinks.

Sophy remembered shrugging, going back into her trailer. She had the paperwork to finish, all the money to sort and count. And permits to fill. Her cousin’s carnival moved from town to town in a blissful haze, but she was the eye.

She’d fought him.

He was just nineteen.

Sophy was twenty-five.

He’d lost his mother at sixteen.

Sophy’s mother had run away when Sophy was two. Sophy and her dad and the carnival — she could just be an eye. Her dad and his cousin Clam had been a clown act and everything else had accreted slowly, the magic acts, human rubber bands, amusement park rides, and doggy shows.

Nick’s father had run away when Nick was six. A tot full of laughter. His mother had MS and it was just the two of them. And his aunt Emma who helped take care of them.

Sophy’s dad had died when Sophy was fifteen. The collapse of a heart.

Neither comforted (confided) in the other. They didn’t have long, intimate conversations, begging love and understanding. Nor was there a single epiphanic moment of cobbled commonality. The carnival was small and slips of information traveled to and fro in a circuit like inside the human body and what you knew you knew and were.

Nick was part of the entertainment. Most acts (people) came and went fairly quickly. Like newspaper stories, you didn’t remember them from year to year (or, rather, they become the same, one story). Nick did card tricks. Using an ordinary deck of playing cards, he’d build castles in the air. So quickly, so gracefully, you didn’t see his hands, only the cards coming to life. He called his act FANTASM. He’d begin by amusing the audience with familiar objects (houses, cars, elephants). He never spoke and the only music was the shuffling of cards. When he felt the audience was ready, he’d bring an audience member onto the stage, someone he liked the look of, usually a woman, elderly. While she sat, sometimes somewhat embarrassed, he’d play with the cards, with patterns, all the while looking into the woman’s face, the cards arranging themselves so quickly, so hypnotic, until there was a shape in the air — nothing extraordinary, again a house or car, but something familiar, so familiar, and the woman would suddenly laugh, or cry, because Nick had taken something from inside her, something she’d forgotten and it was too surprising, seeing it there, a thought, a memory, built out of cards.

It was rare for him to pick a man. Or even a young boy.

“Why women?” Sophy asked. “Old women?”

“It just seems to work better with them.”

“What works better?”

“Happiness.”

His act didn’t impress Sophy. She’d seen many spectacles come and go. Winning hearts was part of the game. There was something about him, though, something that made her notice him at first sight. He was just nineteen, but he was much older, greying at the temples, the old soul in his eyes catching people: he was burning, faster and faster, and this heat made everybody around him glow, sparks flying.

In their carnival everyone did a little bit of everything. Sophy kept the books but she also sold tickets, helped fill out thin audiences, cooked, cleaned, looked after stage props, operated some of the rides, kept an eye on the carnival children. She was also the end-of-the-line problem solver. Disputes, even between married couples, ended with Sophy. She was the eye. And out of the eye, two ladies appeared — that is, the carousel broke down and she was fetched.

Ted, who kept all the mechanics going, figured it’d take several hours to get the old girl back on her feet. Nothing unusual. In such cases, the tickets were refunded and the disappointed customers redirected to other rides or discounted shows. But this evening, there was trouble: two elderly ladies were refusing to budge from their seats. That’s when Nick was sent looking for Sophy.

She was sewing costumes for the poodle show. Tiny tuxedoes and starched skirts with petticoats. Nick watched her hands, the beauty of their song, how the song brought happiness to the little work dogs. Little soldiers of amusement. Trained to bark only on command, even their fluffed-up tails bought for performances — their wet eyes shone with happiness.

Sophy’s eyes, when they noticed Nick at the door, didn’t have a song. They reminded Nick of why he was there.

Sophy followed Nick to the carousel. The two ladies were each in her own chariot. They did not know each other, and while there was a solidarity, neither spoke to the other.

Sophy could only repeat what the others had said. But she saw immediately how anxious they were, how the thought of stepping off the carousel panicked them.

“There isn’t any harm if we sit here?” one of the ladies asked.

Sophy couldn’t see any harm. It was just the engine that needed coaxing. The two women smiled. It was then that Sophy noticed how calm it was on the carousel. Quieter, even, as if the carousel were moving further and further away from the rest of the carnival, she and the two elderly ladies its only passengers.

The two ladies were as different as night and day. One was tall and muscular, the other pale, quiet, like a white shadow. Each was sitting in a cloud chariot, which seemed something more than coincidence.

Unicorns, mermaids, dragons , fairies — mythical creatures circled the carousel. Only three cloud chariots were left, harnessed to wind and flanked by angels. The times the carousel worked properly, dry ice floated up from in between the wooden slats of the platform, the carousel lifting its passengers into a mythic sky of dreams.

The tall, muscular lady was wearing the daintiest cotton dress. She had a thick pink ribbon around her hair like a little girl. She looked up at Sophy and said, “I’m here this time because I want to see the Queen of England.”

No matter what people said, no matter what Sophy was thinking, feeling — Sophy’s expression never changed. Her face was always calm, always open.

“Do you know what I mean?” the lady asked. “You must. It’s your carousel. I come here every year and sit in this chariot. Look — I’ve marked it here so I’ll always know this is the right chariot.”

She showed Sophy the squiggly “x” she’d once carved right underneath the left arm.

“And, to tell you the truth,” she continued, “I only half-believe it, each time, but each time, it works. The first time I wished for a new sewing machine — the old one kept eating the thread — and I got one. Just like that. One of my nieces wanted a newer model so she gave me hers — perfectly good machine — I still got it. The next year I wanted the stinker next door to move — and three weeks after I made the wish, the stinker moved in with his daughter clear across town. Now the nicest gentleman lives next door. Comes and cuts my grass. After he cuts his. So this year I’m wishing to see the Queen of England because I’ve always wanted to see the Queen of England since I was a little girl. I thought I’d make a big wish this time. You never know, and I thought I’d better make a really good wish in case I never see this chariot again. I have to say, this thing really does deliver.” She pointed to the inscription written on the eaves of the carousel: “Dream a Dream … Make a Wish … Dreams Come True … Believe …”

Was the other lady here for a wish too?

What could the lady say? How could she explain? She looked at Sophy’s face. There was an expression in Sophy’s eyes — those eyes looked directly at you, seemed to, but inside, deep in her eyes, she was turning away, as if she could barely stand to look at you. It was too painful. The lady looked away, away from Sophy’s eyes, at Sophy’s cheeks, down along the long thin scars that followed Sophy’s jaw line, left and right like twins, beautiful in their symmetry. They were the scars her mother had given her, her last act before she’d disappeared.

The woman reached up with both her hands and tenderly fingered the scars. Atonement and confession. Her fingers pronouncing the scars. Reaffirming the knife in negative. In the touch, the same offering. The child had stood so still because of the tenderness in the shape, the love in its intention, the warmth in the blood.

Sophy hated being touched, especially her face. Her scars had always been hidden in Sophy’s remoteness. Now, there was this woman’s offering. Trying to move away, without hurting the lady, Sophy turned.

“What’s your wish?” Sophy asked.

“I come every year. I’ve been coming a very long time,” she said. “I was in love, with all my heart and soul, but he died. When I was very young. I fell in love again and married and had kids — but — One day the carnival came and I promised my daughter I’d take her. I only have my daughter. She was almost seven then and she wanted to ride that unicorn. So I sat on this chariot, so I could be close to her, make sure she stayed safe. I remember the music playing, the carousel slowly moving, the clouds all around me, the carousel going faster and faster and I felt this incredible joy. And I started dreaming — only it wasn’t a dream — it was real. He hadn’t died and we were married and had a child. And then I began to think it was a dream, that I’d fallen asleep on the carousel, only the next year, when the carousel returned, I came back and sat here again. And this time I had another three years with him. We had another child, a boy we named Christian. We bought a farm too, only things didn’t go so well. We were badly in debt. We had two more children. And my life, this other life, goes on and on — only on this carousel. And it’s wonderful. So wonderful.”

Nick was leaning across the unicorn, caught by the music of the chariot, the woman’s voice, the way it incanted and how Sophy seemed lifted out of herself by the summoned wind as the voice circled and circled, the chariot hinged forward.

Suddenly Sophy stood up. The lady shrank back in fright. Sophy jumped out of the chariot. She was frozen for a second, and then looking left and right, she tried to find herself. Nick put his hand on Sophy’s shoulder. Sophy looked straight through him. And then there was a shout. Ted was getting hungry. He wanted Sophy to get him a sandwich. And some coffee.

Sophy yelled back and flew off the carousel.

Nick ran and caught Sophy.

He was walking very close to her. She wanted him to leave her alone. She felt so heavy, her body like milky sea water. She’d stopped walking. She turned to Nick and kissed him and everything inside was breaking open. She loved him and he loved her. And it was now the rest of their lives.

And dreams too, breaking open. Strange dreams. She often dreamt she was sleeping in Nick’s arms. Not the way they did, briefly, in fits, conjured by insomnia, but whole nights at a time. Nick in Sophy’s arms. Sophy in Nick’s arms. Tangled together, unclear what is Sophy and what is Nick, Sophy surprised because their bodies had physically merged, their togetherness so heavy she cannot move and it is wonderful. Nick speaks and his voice is the blood in her veins.

Sometimes she dreamt they were kissing again, that first time, and she will say to him, “I love you, Nick” and Nick laughs joyously. Sometimes she waits for him to say it too.

One night, Nick couldn’t find Sophy. By early morning he was distraught, and then he saw her, on the carousel, sitting in a cloud chariot. She seemed asleep, only her eyes were open.

He tapped her wrist. She looked at him, but he was only a part of her dream.

She reached up and touched his face. She looked surprised; she could feel his body, her own hand.

He put his head on her chest, and wanting more comfort, raised his lips to kiss her, first the milky smell of her neck, and then her tender cheek, until his lips were touching hers. He started to make love to her, unbuttoning her blouse without realizing what his fingers were touching.

“No.” Sophy pushed him away. “Not here. I hate this thing.”

Sophy ran off the carousel.

Nick had the strange sensation that the carousel was moving and that he could not. He held onto Sophy’s warm blouse and closed his eyes. He slept for a long time.

He’d learnt card tricks to amuse his mother. Even before, there was such an expressiveness to his hands. His hands spoke before his mouth. Words came only because of his worried father, who wanted to tie Nick’s arms to his body. Nick’s first sentence was forced from him when he was four. He wasn’t verbally fluent until he was eight. His father said he was stubborn and willful. It was just incomprehension. He understood the language of mouth and hands equally and since he understood, he didn’t think to wonder if others could not. His father’s insistence on the verbal seemed to him a bizarre, arbitrary preference.

With his mother, alone, he was free to speak with his hands. Like his mouth, his hands could shape air, manipulate sounds, translate desire, express astonishment, joy, sadness, envy, delight, fear. But his mouth was limited to words, and words were a poor cousin to hands. Words were easy. Easy to misplace. Easy to dismiss. Easy to forget. And what could you really understand from what people said? So much was ritual. Easy lies. Placeholders. You could clumsily travel the distance of a whole universe from one word to another. Whereas you could feel the whole being of a person with a hand. The touch of his mother’s hands could tell him how much she loved him much better than words. And in return, he could take his hands and massage her temples and make her headache disappear. A simple touch was all it took to make his sad mother smile. And what was more, hands could take objects, ordinary, every day objects, and reshape them, remake them so that they were parts of him that did not disappear. He was afraid of disappearing.

He was almost ten when he realized hands could also amaze people. That astonishing speed of his hands as they manipulated the old deck of cards his parents used for games of pinochle, fanning them across the table, shooting them into the air, bringing them back into the palm of his hand, neat and obedient. He’d wink at a card and the card would jump three places behind, two places forward, dancing at command. Hands made people gasp.

Nick’s swift hands were forever transporting cards too. The Queen of Hearts were now for Sophy. She’d find a queen leafed in a book. Underneath her pillow. Inside a shoe. With a stack of dollar bills she’d been counting. It was absurdly romantic. But she liked it and she secretly saved each card, hiding them in the old tin biscuit box where her other curiosities and mementos were, until, with a start, she realized it was always the same queen, the same worn card, and that no matter how carefully she hid that card, it’d always reappear afresh when she’d least expect it.

It was natural, with Sophy. Since his mother’s death, Nick had kept his hands in a box, for tricks and games, a way to ease his way with people, even to earn money (that had surprised him most). But with Sophy, his hands were natural again. His hands could speak again. Teasing her hair. Taking just the very tip of his finger and gently wiping a speck of grime from underneath her eye. Sending the skirt of her flimsy cotton dress in a spiral. Walking his fingers across her naked back and then laying his palm above her tailbone. He told her what he wanted, what he felt with the slight degrees of pressure, his hand in hers. And she’d do the same, and for the first time he understood. He saw why his father was so angry, what the true objection had always been. He had been alone. Hands had made him an alien. His mother had understood his hands, but she’d only had words. Her hands had been only mother’s love. For the first time, another was speaking to him in hands, so naturally, he hadn’t realized she wasn’t using words.

They had so much to say to one another — it astonished them. And the ways they found of speaking. It wasn’t hands, mouth, but their entire being, bodies, consciousness, charged into a new state of being. They were now inseparable. There was no coming or going, no division, no night and day. No doubts. No questions.

Just life. And Nick had to choose. He wasn’t an ambitious person. But since his mother’s death, he’d become restless. He’d liked the carnival at first because it was all movement, spinning from town to town in benevolent chaos. But after a couple of months, this too was routine. So when an impresario demanded that Nick follow him to the Big City where the spotlight was gold and life champagne, Nick said yes.

And Sophy suddenly remembered, with a pain, how regularly people come and go through the carnival, the flow like the Nile, keeping things fresh and fertile. And lonely.

After all, no promises had ever been made. Because it was always the present in the world they had created, time threaded to their desires. She felt clumsy. And angry. No world can exist without a future, and the future was a bully, stepping on their toes, tripping them, bloody noses all around. Sophy retreated back into the self she knew better. Only now, she was two selves because the other self had no where else to go. And each self looked at Nick a different way, wanting such different things. She finally understood how a heart could collapse.

Nick found everything easy.

Nick reached for her hand; Sophy wouldn’t touch his.

So he spoke: “Marry me.”

He was surprised at the strength of his voice. The change which was his becoming. He was giddy and invincible and he was going to change Sophy too.

Sophy shook her head, not even looking at him. She’d never stopped counting the money, putting the bills and dirty coins into rigid columns, counting in tens. Her head had never been so clear, her focus never so sharp.

“Why not?”

“If you want to go, just go.”

He was a tall, strong boy. He lifted her over his shoulders and went.

II

“So. It looks like we are at the end of the road.” Nick looks neither at her nor away from her. In the hotel lobby, with its brown and yellow hues, it all seems to make sense.

Sophy’s breath catches the hem of her soul.

It’s like a routine and they’re finishing up. Nick stands, picks up his suitcase and it’s adios. The final frames of the picture as he walks away.

She touches her wedding ring with her thumb, checking to see if it’s still there, the wedding ring Nick had made with the Queen of Hearts, his the King. She checks, a habit she’s had all her married life, checking, almost as if she knows the ring isn’t really there, and that the Queen is in another world.

The problem with expecting something is that what you expect comes at you inside out. Or maybe it’s you that’s inside out so that what’s at the right angle is at the wrong angle so how you see it coming isn’t how it’s coming at all and you’re unaware even as you watch it coming, guarding your heart against the impact even as you give it to your eventual destroyer. Nick.

Sitting in the lobby, the lights dim, she realizes it’s been like this for weeks, the world drenched in an amber hue, honied and rich, with everything massive, so massive, and two-dimensional, shadows heavy and arced, a treacle brown that weighs the earth with such sadness.

This is not what usually happens when you follow a magician. Theirs, the one who had led them deftly down this hole, was the rabbit and hat kind, a friend of a friend — they were all staying with friends staying with friends, squatting in basements, vacated buildings, places without sunlight. The magician said he was going South, to the sunny resorts where all the work was — Nick and Sophy should come too. Nick stole some money for their train fares, the magician’s too, — he’d been pick-pocketing, but with so many people out of work, who was there to steal from anymore? All the rich were down South, were all heading down South, where the golden resorts are, where all the jobs are, where there really is an Easy Street, adjacent to Fortune, five blocks north.

It was true — there was the sun, which made everything so golden. But too, there were the deserted hotels and the millionaires jumping out of buildings. The wrong kind of gold. The magician disappeared.

They didn’t eat. Walking all day, walking all night, suitcases in hand, the only rooms occupied park benches and bus stops.

And then a small miracle, grains of delirium: a piece of paper — money — floating down the street, Nick catching it in midair. Enough to keep them alive, if they were very careful, for a full two weeks.

They ate their first real meal. Their shriveled stomachs grumbled in protest. They laughed. They’d grown so thin, they could see where the muscles were parting from the bones, even their noses filling with holes. And Sophy’s scars — Sophy’s scars were now so prominent — it hurt Nick too much to look at her.

Inside the diner the world was warm and friendly, the food oh-so good. And what was more, the menu was all-you-can-eat. Sophy cried because she couldn’t even finish what was on her plate. Neither could Nick. Their stomachs had shrunk too much.

“He’ll take good care of you,” Clam had said.

Life after the carnival was like a piece of music which was more static than song. The impresario led them this way and that. In that last stop, Nick became part of a large touring show, his name barely noticeable on the poster bills. They couldn’t live on what Nick made so Sophy earned money sewing costumes. She was always sewing, her hands so busy, even as she watched Nick perform. He performed for ten minutes at a time. Just filler at first. Which didn’t matter. That is, time didn’t matter. It was pouring out of him. Power. Stupefying. His hands effectively unnecessary, his ability to plunder people’s memories frightening. He felt glorious, so incredibly invincible. He was God.

And then it happened, in the middle of a performance, what he’d somehow anticipated, and suppressed, deep in his subconscious: the cards opened their eyes and awoke. And with a surge Nick understood what this power really was.

The Cards. The moment he was on stage, the moment he touched the Cards, Nick now disappeared. He said himself, he seemed to be watching the Cards from deep in another place. And he saw how the Cards lived and fed from the collective breath of the audience.

Word got around. People became mad with Fantasm.

FANTASM

It knew each body and each life, churning, plundering, building towards a completeness. All his life he’d felt himself spinning faster and faster and now he knew why: all this heat, the surging momentum, to Fantasm, the air It breathed, his life like fuel, giving birth to this, Complete Beauty.

One moment of complete, inexorable beauty.

An achingly slow, magnificent burst of beauty, life and death in one.

And it finished him. Complete Beauty was now Nick as ash. The cards were dead, his hands were dead: he was left performing sleight-of-hand tricks.

He wondered if she knew. He was afraid to look at her, afraid to touch her, afraid of being touched. She watched him.

Sewing costumes, cooking meals, hands so busy, Sophy watched him. He was so old now, the air around him stale, his hair, his skin, ash. He could barely control his hands.

He knew she was hiding money. He’d always given her all his money, because she’d been so good at keeping track of that sort of thing and knew what it was to buy things and he himself only thought of money as paper. Until now. There was nothing more to give her. He needed the money.

One day he ransacked the room. No money. Just the Queen of Hearts. It was all wrong. The Queen of Hearts should not come to him. Everything was all wrong. Fantasm had switched worlds on him. Thrown him with a kick into this sick, desperate world where he wasn’t him but Sophy was a constant.

When Sophy came back, she found Nick sitting on the edge of the bed, bent forward, throwing cards on the floor, slowly, methodically. So lost in the act, he didn’t know she’d returned.

The room looked strangely tidy.

In the end, their life with the Impresario did not last very long. He was like Sophy, an eye, only his eye saw the future. Picking his cues very wisely, he disappeared one day, taking all the money.

When she’d told Clam she was leaving with Nick, Clam said, “I like him. I really do. He’ll take care of you. In the City. He’ll take care of you.”

The City was night time, cold and hard, all lights and glamour, tuxedo jackets and martini glasses. The Impresario had Nick perform in elegant nightclubs, some as big as theaters, with their own competing bands and dance floors. There was a constant din of clinking glasses, waiters moving, low-buzz chatter, stiletto heels on parquet floors. The women were beautiful and their clapping polite. The men were drunk, on perfume or alcohol. Together, their speech was mannered, their laughter rehearsed, the way they interacted, choreographed. Nothing they said must be taken seriously. There are no promises in style.

The Impresario schooled him in panache. The act became entertaining tricks and elegant gestures. No more dangerous than bubbles spraying in a glass of champagne. The Impresario insisted on accompanying music.

“A pity about your scars,” the Impresario said to her. “We could have dressed you up. Nice silk evening gown, your hair swept up. Earrings flickering in the light. You could have been the Girl. Just what an act always wants. A Beautiful Girl.”

The Impresario smiled. And his smile was like a snake to their frozen bird.

Shivering, Nick held Sophy’s hand; Sophy squeezed back in terror.

They didn’t go to the City straight away. There was too much carnival world about him, the Impresario said. He needed polish.

There was a resort in the mountains where Nick could develop his act, get a feel for the right kind of audience, upper middle-class, affluent, a little jaded but wanting nothing truly extraordinary, nothing outside their comfort zone. He’d have to wait a month though, when the summer resort season kicked in. But just outside the resort, there was a small farm that needed looking after. Nick’s impresario sent Sophy and Nick to the farm.

It was a real farm, with chickens and cows. A nice big house with gingham curtains and a red barn. Nick and Sophy laughed when they first saw it — how could it be so story-book? A farm hand came every day and showed Nick and Sophy how to take care of the animals. There was even a kitchen garden for Sophy: peas, tomatoes, peppers, lettuce, bushy dill and thyme.

It was all so strange, their life, play-acting. Early every morning Sophy fried up bacon and eggs, boiled the coffee, toasted bread, which she even learned to bake. The stove had to be fed with wood and she grew expert at tending flames — every part of this life made her feel so proud. Nick looking after the cows, mending fences. Sophy feeding the chickens and collecting eggs. She fretted over the garden, killing snails at night, pulling weeds during the day. They watched the tall grass grow golden, almost ready to be stored as straw, anxious like all the other farmers that the rain keep itself amused with sweet bursts and nothing more.

In the late evenings, after dinner, Nick tried to teach Sophy how to play the ancient spinet. She could eventually finger a few notes, but she would much rather watch and listen to Nick play. Sometimes when he was playing, she wondered if Nick wasn’t thinking about his mother. The whole room, the lace on the spinet, the small porcelain figurines, seemed like the essence of mother, from what she knew, from the touch and smell of Nick when he thought about his mother. And she tried to connect this with the scars on her face.

Sunday roasts and picnics on the meadow. A life that fitted them more and more, a part of them like skin. They breathed and slept. Like any other married couple, lying entwined, resting away from life the whole night through. Like any other married couple. That too sounded make-believe.

“We’re married. “

“My husband.”

“My wife.”

It seemed so unreal, so ridiculous, they couldn’t help giggling. After all, they were just Nick and Sophy, Sophy and Nick.

Watching the sun set, the molten pinks and amber hues, they knew what marriage was.

“Do you think you’ll have a baby?” Nick asked.

“Do you want a baby?” Sophy asked.

“Yes.” He hadn’t thought about it before, but now, of course. Of course! “Do you?”

“Yes.” She was so happy.

The horizon was a rich, hot amber now. In the sun’s steep angle, everything was burning, breathing, even the rocks and stones along the uneven road alive.

Nick took her hands and kissed them, their soft, fragrant palms.

He laughed.

“Your hands — what’s on your hand? What is it that they smell of?”

Sophy smelled her hands.

“Oh, it’s thyme. I like the smell so I rubbed it into my fingers. When I was weeding. Out in the garden.”

Nick took her hands again, rubbing his face and neck, all over with thyme’s oil.

“I feel reborn,” he said, laughing.

Outside the hotel, remembering this, Nick’s voice and words and promises are the tears Sophy can’t shed. She reaches up with her hands, up to that setting sun, up into the hot amber, up inside Nick, Nick smelling magical thyme, Nick rubbing her hands with a thick incantation:

“This is our life. Everything else, before and after, was a dream. We’re awake now. And we’ll have children. Lots of children. Boys and girls. Enough to fill the whole house. Everything except now — it doesn’t matter, Sophy. It didn’t exist. It was just a dream. We’ve always been here. And we’ll stay here. Always. Right here on this farm. This is our life. I love you, Sophy. I’ve always loved you. I’ll always love you.”

In the sun’s steep angle, everything burns, breathes, even the rocks and stones along the uneven road alive.

“Look,” Sophy says, looking down at her arms, Nick’s face. “Look at us.”

They are gold and brown, red and blazing. Immortal beings. Fantasm.

‘Fantasm’ was first published in Atticus Review.

Fantasm was originally published in Triple Eight Palace of Dreams & Happiness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Angel Stalker

He drops by on an irregular nightly schedule. Magnificent body with a huge span of wings. It’s the wings that are a bitch. Not easy fucking a guy with wings. Hands have to be strategic. Forget rolling over, me on top — his wings are way too sensitive. The novelty gone, I think of moths, insects, creepy crawlers — sci-fi nightmares. Near climax, the wings will unfold and flap in orgasmic fury. The air disturbance is unbelievable — like fucking a helicopter. And he’s so airy. More light than substance. I like a body with substance. Some mass inside and around me. Not that he understands. And I’ve tried explaining. Then moving. Several times, around town, to a new town, new country, subterranean. He’s a master stalker, more bird than man, his homing instinct supernatural, natural to me.

A supernatural being hones onto me. Do we have history? Another lifetime ago? And what’s his day job exactly? He never talks; perhaps he’s deaf. Maybe our connection is telepathic, quantum physic. Retribution, punishment, salvation, sacrifice — I’ve wondered all this so many times.

I toy with the idea of going to a past-life therapist. I’m desperate for context, motivation — but without that side of trauma. Lost memories are trauma, aren’t they?

It’s not like my angel stalker is a jealous lover — he’s never been violent or cruel or demanding — just silent. Retribution, punishment, salvation, sacrifice. Silence is reward and punishment.

Confession. I sell the feathers. The ones he sheds (on his wings they’re fluffy and soft, but once shed they become crystal hard). I make a fortune at auctions. It’s great having a fortune. Having what others want (angel as lover, the stuff of fantasy, religion). Money is the ultimate aphrodisiac. Isn’t it?

Confession. I sell my story. Weekly. As far as I can tell, I’m the only one with an Angel Lover (the Angel Stalker story will come later). An Angel Lover is glamorous so I’m glamorous, and even though I protect my identity, hiding behind a cute made-up name, I feel the celebrity. The deification. The whole world is buzzing with my story.

Sometimes I imagine that I’m him, the angel. Fallen. Wings clipped. I can imagine him as tormentor or tormented. Sadist or saint. Wanting comfort or giving comfort. There are no stories in his eyes. Perhaps he needs none. Unlike me, who needs at least one to keep my sanity.

When I’m not imagining, I’m planning. With enough money I can buy my way into another dimension. A new identity, a fresh soul. Or have I already been through all that? An erasure of memory with each escape?

An unknown past, an unknown future. This is why I stay and harvest feathers. If I grab chunks during sex the tips are crimson with blood. Angel blood. Sells at a premium. A kiltered exchange, maybe. But fairness is another universe.

‘Angel Stalker’ was first published in Luna Luna.

Angel Stalker was originally published in Triple Eight Palace of Dreams & Happiness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Christmas Wabi Sabi

Courtesy of The Public Review Domain.

It was hard to believe December was here again. Suddenly it was Christmas time. Only without Keiko.

“Christmas without Keiko isn’t Christmas,” Lucy observed, lying on the couch with Gabriel on her stomach.

Keiko was already in New York and she was furious with us. Spitting mad, as they used to say (and I could actually hear her spitting as she screamed at us over the phone — she was so scary, I almost cried). I could see why she was so mad. Because Lucy had only decided at the last minute to stay in Portland. Too late to tell Keiko. Keiko was still demanding that Lucy fly back. But Lucy wasn’t budging: she was out of a job and still recuperating from her throat infection — Christmas in New York, especially Christmas with Keiko, was pretty overwhelming even in the best of circumstances. All Lucy wanted to do was lie around on the couch and watch mindless television. And it was wonderful, being pampered and fed by my mom.

“This has been the worst year ever,” she’d lament. Gabriel, ever the echo, barking in agreement.

But Keiko was never very good at seeing the other guy’s point of view. To her, this was betrayal, complete, absolute betrayal. We’d ganged up together against her.

I did have a feeble excuse for Keiko, about why I couldn’t fly out for Christmas. I’d started a new job. I was now working part-time at the brewery with Connor and the gang. Answering phones, running errands, greeting customers — all that fun stuff. And it was working out pretty well, which surprised me. Because it’d just seemed like such a recipe for disaster when Connor first suggested it.

“You’re serious?” I’d said.

“Yeah.”

“What would I do?”

“Learn to brew beer.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because of you.”

“Me? What about me?”

“You know. You, me, us.”

“So what about us?” Connor asked. “What’s going to happen with us?”

“So there isn’t an us?” I asked.

“You told Melanie to make me chicken mole. That pretty much puts an end to us.”

“Melanie never got back to me about that,” I said.

“No. She wouldn’t. Because I asked her not to.”

“Why?”

“Because I’d like us, that is me and Melanie, to have some privacy to see what will or what will not develop.”

“Oh.” Well, that was gratitude for you. I guess people are right: no good deed goes unpunished. Although, I suppose I wouldn’t be too thrilled with me, either, if I were Connor.

Lucy was taking bets that they’d ended up sleeping together after the chicken mole. Stina agreed. Mole was pretty powerful stuff.

“You little matchmaker,” Lucy teased.

“I just hate seeing people go down the wrong path,” I admitted.

“They sort of have the same eyes,” Stina commented. “And the same forehead.”

“Same body types, too,” I added.

“Hey, she’s pizza and he’s beer,” Lucy said. “What more do you want?”

Lucy and Stina were becoming inseparable. Lucy was even helping out at the chew toy museum.

“Gabriel absolutely loves it there,” Lucy told me.

“Taking a baby to a candy store,” I said. And then, suddenly, out of nowhere, I think of Mr. Gregory. See his kind face laughing at the thought of Gabriel at a chew toy museum. “I wonder where Mr. Gregory is spending Christmas this year.”

We still hadn’t heard a single word from Mr. Gregory. I guess I was hoping, since it was Christmas, we’d maybe get an anonymous card and it’d be addressed to Gabriel so we’d know it was Mr. Gregory.

“That’s just the way men are,” Lucy stated. “Out of sight, out of mind. Look at the way they can just abandon their children, without a single look back. Scary.”

“I hope he’s okay,” I said. “I hope he’s some place warm and friendly like Rio. He really didn’t do well if the weather got too cold.”

Stina was strumming her guitar. Lucy put her magazine down and listened.

“What are you playing?” she finally asked.

“I’ve been working on a Christmas song,” Stina said.

“That’s so neat,” I said.

“I’ve always wanted to write a Christmas song,” Stina explained. “I just thought this year, maybe this year, I could really do it. And I think I have.”

“You’re so wonderful,” Lucy said, all starry-eyed. “You can do anything.”

“Well, you haven’t heard the song yet,” Stina said, blushing.

“Will you sing it for us?” I asked.

“Okay. I think it’s ready,” Stina said.

Stina began playing an intro. It had all the frosty window quality you’d want in a Christmas song. And then she began singing:

I wonder if you’re the same,

Wonder if you feel the same

Looking at the Christmas tree,

The lights flickering all along the Christmas tree

Wondering if you feel the same

Waiting, waiting

For the snow to fall,

Waiting, waiting

For the snow to fall

It feels like this Christmas we’re the same

Out on frosty nights, the air so gray.

Our hands in mittens, our wishes wrapped,

Almost touching, almost wishing

As we stop and walk on icy streets —

It’s Christmas

And I wonder if you’re the same,

Wonder if you feel the same

Looking at the Christmas tree,

The lights flickering all around the Christmas tree

Wondering if you feel the same

Waiting, waiting

For the snow to fall,

Waiting, waiting

For the snow to fall

And I wonder if you’re the same,

Wonder if you feel the same,

Wishing, wishing

For the snow to fall,

Wishing, wishing

For the snow to fall

The snow to fall…

Lucy and I both loved it.

“It’s so beautiful,” I said. “Where’d you get the inspiration?”

“I guess it was that day.” She turned to Lucy. “That day we were in downtown and all the Christmas lights were up and it was suddenly so cold as we were walking together — ”

My mom and Marc were falling in love, and now Lucy and Stina? Lucy hadn’t said anything. But maybe she was only now beginning to feel it, catching it at the edges. She did look a little surprised.

I thought about Fen.

The next day, something really odd happened. I was all alone in the house. It was maybe around six, six-thirty and Crowe comes knocking at the door.

Seeing him, I was so startled, I blurted out, “What are you doing here?”

“Is it alright if we talked for a few minutes?” he asked shyly.

“I guess so,” I said. I was disarmed by his shyness and wasn’t thinking.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

“Um — okay.”

I’d been working part-time at the brewery now for about two weeks and Crowe and I had come to a workable truce. He still occasionally stared at me, but mostly, he kept himself in the background whenever I was around, which I was very grateful for. Now I was thinking maybe it wasn’t a truce at all. Maybe he’d just been biding his time, waiting for me to let down my guard before attempting another psychic attack.

Crowe and I went into the living room and sat opposite each other again. I suppose I should have been nice and asked him if he wanted anything to drink, but I just wanted him to leave as soon as possible. I don’t suppose I should have even let him through the front door. But what can you say when someone’s at your door and asks to come in?

“So,” I said, prodding him. “Anything specific you want to talk to me about? Something to do with beer, I imagine.”

“No. Not really,” he said. “I just came by to give you something.”

He opened his small messenger bag and got a gift-wrapped box out.

“Don’t tell me we’re doing secret Santas,” I said. Because I really hate the whole secret Santas business.

He slowly shook his head. “I bought this for my girlfriend. Last year. We broke up before I had a chance to give it to her. It seemed stupid to throw it away so I thought you could have it.”

“Oh, no. No. Thank you.”

He seemed shocked that I’d refuse.

“Why don’t you donate it to one of those charity places,” I suggested. “It’s tax deductible.”

“Why are you being such a bitch?”

I sat back, stunned by his attack. And then it came to me, what was really going on: “You’re trying to turn me into your girlfriend. That’s what’s going on, isn’t it? Oh, my god. You think I’m channeling your girlfriend or something. You’re going for some sort of do-over. Do you realize how absolutely creepy you’re being?”

Apparently he hadn’t. Crowe’s face turned very white. It was like he’d turned into a black-and-white photo. I felt sorry for him because all this was so unintentional. Something in me had so reminded him of his girlfriend that he had lost all his sense of place and time and propriety. Maybe he’d even lost himself. You do that in love.

Luckily, Crowe’s drama was one of those quiet art-house films with little action. Crowe retreated with his head down. Without a word he took his gift-wrapped box and walked out of the house.

I sat back down, my legs shaking a little. It’d been so odd and disturbing; I laughed just to take the edge off.

When the phone rang, I let it ring a long time before picking it up. It was Fen. Immediately he knew something was wrong.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yes. No.” I told him about Crowe and what had just happened, also about that time at the cafe.

“You lock all the doors, right?” Fen asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m flying out.”

I thought he was joking. “That’d be so great.”

“No. Really. I’m flying out. I should never have let you go. You should have told me what was going on.”

“It’s okay. Really. Connor says Crowe is a good guy.”

“I don’t care what Connor says. I’ll get a ticket and fly out as soon as I can. Keep all the doors locked, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And stop working at the brewery. Okay?”

“Okay.”

And that was that. Fen was flying to my rescue. I felt so touched. But I hoped Fen wasn’t really flying out because who could afford a last-minute plane ticket so close to Christmas?

Excerpt from Buy Her A Diamond Before It’s Too Late. Buy at Amazon, B&N, iBookStore, Kobo, etc.

Christmas Wabi Sabi was originally published in Triple Eight Palace of Dreams & Happiness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Sehnsucht

1.

I’m weeding in my dream (near the rose bush that climbs up against the pale brick wall of the house, the petals fragrantly pink) and I pull up tangled grass, long and yellow, stubborn roots — only it’s not grass but the nesting bird I’ve pulled, a span of wings like grass, stiff and warped in my astonished hands.

2.

The suspension between square feet and foreclosure notices, desiccated leaves the newly swept carpet rugs in never-used dining rooms, forlorn beauty the residue of brash glossies, the brochures which asked What Color Are Your Dreams? Months later in shades of neglect, the pattern of heartbreak, an answer blown through unhinged dreams, the windows and doors crept open.

3.

I look at all the people on these buses with those huge windows caged and exposed — and I think are we all composed of bits of glass telling a story which isn’t us, each shard of glass rancorous against the other which we blur to make a more convenient picture — people on buses, buildings and trees —

4.

My garden of Eden is in the east. A city suburb happy with dust and noise, children rolling down hills, sucking nectar from clover, yellow petals so sweet in the mouth — no gods, no devils just the angry German shepherd chained to a wooden post. After what seems like endless sunlight, Eve is the dusk that calls me home, all the other children scattering dragonflies, their wings liquid thoughts of kinematic homesickness.

(I am exiled from the idea of home.)

Originally published in Olentangy Review, Winter 2015

Sehnsucht was originally published in Triple Eight Palace of Dreams & Happiness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

How a Vampire Celebrates Halloween

Dennison’s Bogie Book for Halloween (courtesy of Public Domain Review)

Last Halloween

In my

basement

found an undead

you know

a vampire.

He looks normal

except

his skin the color of white

bedsheets

and

long fingers like talons

thin

like a needle with

total black eyes

kinda creepy

flat

matte in a glossy-coated

world.

It’s true what they say

the undead

with their hypnotic voices

which

compared

to

surround sound

not so impressive.

This Halloween he’s

answering the door

help pass out candy.

I’ve dressed him up as a vampire of course.

He appreciates the meta

laughing and talking

suddenly

about blood and coagulants

his butcher friends

and breeds of pigs

grades of color

smell of iron

and how disgusting boat noodles are.

I nod and pretend

to be horrified

because

really

he’ll never know blood

like I know blood

that crampy

endless flowing weight

which feeds

the miseries of this undead world.

Now

some candy.

How a Vampire Celebrates Halloween was originally published in Triple Eight Palace of Dreams & Happiness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Trick-o’-Caroling!

Then suddenly a door slammed and the room blackened. “Penny, sweetheart — you’re not supposed to turn the lights off anymore,” Dulcey called out.

“I didn’t turn the lights off,” Penny said.

Bob made his way to the light switch. “The power’s gone.” He looked out the window. The entire neighborhood was black, except in the glowing orange light of children trick-or-treating, their plastic pumpkins eerily swinging in blackness.

Carol hunted out candles. Bob lit an old hurricane lamp, the light somber, flickering ghosts deflected.

“You had this all planned out!” someone accused Dulcey.

“Not me!” she laughed. And then she found her legs. “It is All Hallows’ Eve, the night the dead become the living. Expect the unexpected. All other nights the ghosts hide inside us, wandering in our imagination, where dark is light and light helpless. Only once, one night out of the whole year, are they too strong to be held in imagination, too irresistible to be dismissed. Boldly they come, boldly into the night, to grab what is theirs and celebrate. What we won’t recognize, what we can’t believe because we are too afraid, is that this one night, they own us. Ghosts are here always, their breath on our hair, their touch down our spines, watching us as we huddle in our beds. It’s not just our imagination. Tonight is Halloween. Let’s touch the ghosts. Come on. Everybody. Blow out the candles. I dare you.”

Bob turned off his hurricane lamp. Slowly, the candles snuffed away. It was blacker with the sounds of hushed, anticipating breathing. The room seemed choked.

I can feel you, Megan thought, her arms folded about her. Stella.

Suddenly a cracking, thunderous sound!

“Is that you, Bob?” Dulcey giggled.

“How did you know?” Bob asked.

“Been on too many soundstages. Not bad. I’m going to put you into the act, dear man.”

Bob shimmered his cymbals.

“I know! Everyone, hold hands,” Dulcey commanded. “Let’s have a seance! Be very quiet. Be very welcoming. Hello. Hello. Is there a spirit in the house? Is there a spirit in the house?”

“Yes,” Bob croaked.

“Who are you, spirit?”

“The spirit of the drunken sailor!”

“What do you want, spirit?”

“A cold martini, shaken, not stirred.”

Laughter roared.

Dulcey quickly stood up, lit a candle.

“We’re going trick-o’-caroling, everyone,” she said. “Light all the candles!”

“Trick a what?”

“Trick-o’-caroling — you know, like Christmas caroling.”

“But there aren’t any Halloween songs,” Helen called out.

“We can sing camp songs,” Stephanie suggested.

“Stephanie!” Dulcey grabbed the girl and kissed her cheek, hugging her tightly. “Right, then, off we go.”

“Oh, this is getting too hokey,” Regina whispered in Megan’s ear. “She can be too much. Don’t you think?”

Megan ignored Regina, walking away.

Gaily, Dulcey’s party went around the neighborhood, ringing doorbells and yelling, “Trick-o’-caroling!” As they sang, other groups joined them, until, a festive mob, they ended up on Platter’s Field, drinking apple cider and roasting hotdogs and marshmallows around a bonfire, giddy with joy. The power quietly flickered back on around four in the morning.

Excerpt from Anchored Leaves. Buy at Amazon, B&N, Kobo, iBookStore, etc.

Trick-o’-Caroling! was originally published in Triple Eight Palace of Dreams & Happiness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Spiders & Dresses

As soon as she could, Penny took Kitty over to Bethany’s house. “Mom, can we get another kitten? Can we get another kitten?” Bethany chanted until Mrs. Lowell got off the sofa and chased them out of the house. She had a bad cold and wanted sleep.

“She’s so adorable.” Bethany cuddled the cat in her arms, tickling her tummy. “Hey, let’s dress her!” She got out all her doll’s clothes and picked a pink lace dress for Kitty to wear. Kitty struggled to get out of it.

“Cats don’t wear clothes, dummy,” Chris reprimanded her.

“Who says they don’t?”

“God, you are so stupid.”

“Mom told you not to call me stupid anymore.”

“She didn’t say I couldn’t call you asinine.”

“What does that mean?”

“God, you are so stupid.”

“You can’t say that anymore! You can’t!”

Erin marched into the backyard with a glass jar in her hands. “Look what I’ve got.”

Caught inside the jar was a huge brown spider, its legs hairy and thick.

“Cool.” Chris tried to get at the jar.

“Get your own,” Erin snapped. “Look, Bethany, look. Spider.”

Bethany screamed.

“It’s going in your mouth! Scream, Bethany, scream!”

Bethany rolled on the ground in a fit.

“Baby, baby, baby,” Erin chanted. “You a baby too, Penny?”

Penny held still as Erin put the jar right up to her face.

“Where’d you find it?” Chris asked.

“Up in the attic. Remember all the yucky things we found in the attic, Bethany? Why does she have all her doll clothes out?”

“She was trying to dress Penny’s kitten,” Chris said. “Pretty asinine, Bethany, asinine.”

Bethany scrambled for her doll clothes. Erin unscrewed the jar and let the spider out onto her hand. “Come here, Little Miss Muffet. You want to dress the spider? Pretty spider, pretty spider.”

Erin sat on Bethany. She held the spider up to her mouth. “Eat it! Eat it! Eat it! Eat it!”

“Can’t I get any peace and quiet — just for once in my life?” They all jumped. Penny had never seen Mrs. Lowell so angry. “Erin, get in the house. Now! Penny, go home. Bethany, stop screaming! Just shut up — all of you — just shut up!”

Penny grabbed Kitty and ran home.

Excerpt from Anchored Leaves. Buy at Amazon, B&N, Kobo, iBookStore, etc.

Spiders & Dresses was originally published in Triple Eight Palace of Dreams & Happiness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The Wild Boy & How He Tamed a Flying Horse & Won the Heart of a Girl Who Saves the World

Courtesy of The Met

On cue, the attendants bring into the garden a giant wooden horse.

“This is an automaton,” Lord Altan says. “The controls are here.”

Lord Altan pats the top of the horse’s neck.

“See this peg? If you touch it, the horse will come to life. Touch it again, the horse will gallop forward. Move the peg to the right and the horse will climb into the sky. Move the peg to the left and the horse will descend. The horse will take you anywhere that you wish to go. Anywhere.”

“The horse flies?” I ask.

“So swiftly, it can travel all the way around the earth in one day. You will need aid to mount the horse, I see.”

Lord Altan lifts his hand and attendants rush towards the horse with a tall stepladder. Before I know what’s happening, the attendants have pushed me up the ladder and onto the horse. I’m not even in the saddle and the horse is dancing, its legs wildly in the air.

“Lord Altan!” I scream. I’ve never been on a horse before. What did he say about the peg? Frantic, I pull at it in every direction hoping to make the horse stop. But instead of stopping, the horse gallops forward. I grab its furious mane — it’s too late — I’m flying off — suddenly someone jumps on the horse and lands behind me. He takes the reins and holds me tight.

“Where are you going without me?” his voice whispers in my ear, laughing.

Deacon!

The horse gallops into the air. Within a few seconds, we’re high up in the sky, racing through wispy clouds.

“Where are we going?” I ask Deacon.

“Does it matter?” he asks.

“No,” I say. It really doesn’t.

Just a few moments ago, I was terrified, but now, with Deacon holding me, the flying horse seems like the most magical, most wonderful thing in the world.

I must have fallen asleep in Deacon’s arms. When I wake up, we’re riding slowly through a meadow.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“You’re awake,” Deacon says.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Ages and ages,” he says, laughing. “I didn’t think you were ever going to wake up.”

“I’ m sorry . You must be tired. ” He’ s been holding me the entire time.

“I never get tired.”

“Where are we?”

“Not far from home.”

“Do we have to go back?”

“No. We can stay here for a while if you want.”

“How did you get the horse so calmed down?” I ask, marveling. It was like a demon horse and now it’s so gentle. “We’re old friends,” Deacon says. “His name is Solstice. I used to sneak him out for rides. I found him one day, when I was exploring the palace looking for something fun to do. He was in a room, all alone. I don’t think anyone had touched him in a very long time. He looked like he wanted a good ride, so I got on. You should have seen him buck! I thought I was going to break my neck. But eventually, he got to know me. He knew I wasn’t going to steal him. So he let me ride him. I think Father found out about my rides because one day, I went to look for Solstice and he was gone.”

“Did you know? That I was about to ride the horse?” “Yes. I was with Mother. She summoned me. She said Father was giving you Solstice and she was afraid he was too powerful for you. I got to you just in time.”

“Your mother spoke to me.”

“She’s lovely, isn’t she?”

“I can see why your father loves her so much. Deacon — is Lady Kaila your real mother? She isn’t your stepmother or maybe you were adopted?”

“Of course she’s my real mother. Why?”

“I was just thinking — you don’t look at all like your mother.” I thought about the little boy in my dream.

“She’s the only mother I’ve ever known,” Deacon says. “Stop asking such stupid questions.”

He’s becoming distressed again. The horse is unhappy too, his muscles tense, ready to gallop.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “She’s wonderful, your mother. I wish she could have been my mother.”

Deacon and his horse are calm now.

“Solstice brought Mother into the Djinn world. Because of that, he has a very special place in Father’s heart. Father must like you very much to give Solstice to you.”

“Maybe,” I say, hiding my true feelings. “Where have you been, Deacon? You’ve been away for such a very long time. I’ve been so lonely without you.”

“Have I been away? I’m with you now. I’m always with you.”

I don’t understand what’s wrong with him. There’s something wrong with Lady Kaila and something wrong with Deacon and I begin to wonder if they don’t have the same illness.

Eventually we ride back into the palace grounds. Youri and Channa are waiting for us. There’s such a look of relief in Youri’s eyes. He tries to help me off the horse but Deacon angrily brushes him away. Instead, it’s Deacon who helps me, first jumping down and then reaching up for me and bringing me gently back to the ground.

Before I can even take a step, I wobble. I feel like I’m still on the horse, still flying through the air.

“Come on,” Deacon says, laughing. He lifts me into his arms and carries me to my rooms. It’s romantic, but it’s also an act of possession and I wonder if Deacon would have been so gallant if Youri hadn’t been there. If Youri hadn’t tried to help me dismount.

Excerpt from Romance of the 3 Djinn. Buy at Amazon, B&N, iBookStore, Kobo, etc.

The Wild Boy & How He Tamed a Flying Horse & Won the Heart of a Girl Who Saves the World was originally published in Triple Eight Palace of Dreams & Happiness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The Soul Selects Her Own Society

That night, I looked over our guest list and realized that all our friends were either friends we’d had from college or friends we’d made in the first three years of moving to New York. Was Kenny’s fortune cookie right? Had our world become that small?

It made me think of this girl I knew at Bloomingdale’s. We briefly worked together in the sweater department. She was slightly zany and really sweet and we always had a great time together. She was only twenty-five years old but had already been married and divorced. One day she blurted out this statement, “I have more than enough friends. I just don’t have the time for any more.” I think she thought I was making overtures and wanted me to understand ours was a working friendship only. Even so, I couldn’t get what she said out of my head. It was so odd. On the one hand, I knew what she was saying. There was only so much time in a day. You should treat the friends you have well. Gathering more and more friends only spreads you out more and more, endangering the friendships you do have. But, on the other hand, friends weren’t sweaters you can coolly inventory. At least, I couldn’t. Isn’t there always room for more friends? At least, real friends, friends of the heart? I thought about that Emily Dickinson poem, “The Soul selects her own Society — Then — shuts the Door — ” Every time I read that poem, I could feel the door to my own heart shutting and there was something so final about it. So heart breaking, really.

Excerpt from Buy Her A Diamond Before It’s Too Late. Buy at Amazon, B&N, iBookStore, Kobo, etc.

The Soul Selects Her Own Society was originally published in Triple Eight Palace of Dreams & Happiness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.