Teodora Dumitriu was born and lives in Campina, Romania. Passions: children, books and English. Sometimes, she writes. The Game To my children … to all children It is only a game in the beginning – like children being “only” children when acting in that dreamlike theatre next door. Absorbed by their role, absorbing it whole, they enter stage left on white horses with wingand they beam as they bow to their proud, gracious peers: explorers, cartographers, architects, archers and farmers and poets and kings. Children playing, enjoying a game are the game: all colours are welcome, no prompter is needed; they already know each speaks true and does right; no winners, no losers – whatever the costumes, all flowers are fair in a garden of light. Then comes the day you stumble backstage, airy-fairy actor, and, in the dark, the sound the penny mercilessly dropping makes, awakes you, in the end. “This is the real playhouse, Childe – a theatre of war; good news: you graduated to the real play; bad news – only two parts available today for you (or anyone). Just two: either a hapless soldier that a thousand sleazy generals command or the ringmaster of a circus crammed with beasts no-one can tame. The stage directions? Crystal clear: ‘Hunt or be hunted; eat/be eaten; conquer/fail.’ A torch? Feel free to earn it. Sweat. Despair. Repeat. Again. Light up. Then meet your shadow. Welcome to The Game.” It’s not “only” a game when your whole Being is at stake; when you’re the battlefield and both armies rallying round their sires the fleet, artillery and air-force of the missing, the forgotten and the living… …oh, let them clash under the jungle laws: there can’t be finer accolade and glory for the fallen than grass and coral growing on their graves – but the survivors shall have learnt the hard way: life can be hollower than death unless dissolved in the immortal tide of gathering, then giving. And then it’s – yes, only a game again… dreamworkers bring awake a broader, brighter dreamland to belong to and belonging is the meaning… losing and splintering themselves only to feed a stronger wind, a deeper stream… only to find those scattered selves recast and reinvented as the eternal substance of a Dream. 1.The Meaning Once upon a time, there was a rainbow man: a warrior, a poet and a scholar. A prince. A sower. An explorer. One day, he raised the rainstorm of a lifetime to rain upon a desert colours, hope and trust; from them, an unforgettable love poem stemmed – a charm to free, to lift. To last: E = mc2 Maybe it was the World Tree, Yggdrasil, that whispered through its leaves the sacred spell; maybe the sunken shingles of Atlantis throbbed in tune that day – but for the Mystery to speak and to be heard, the rainbow man had first to gather (sweat-despair-repeat), then give all colour shards away. Only a blue-sky-minded student could have seized the secret of life’s swinging between Everything and Nothing; only a blazing, golden poet’s soul might have flung up that magic spark; only a true, red-blooded man-at-arms would have completed such chancy quest throughout the dark. Three travellers to meet their bliss: as the enraptured party disembarked, the world ceased spinning for a long, long second – when the green-fingered reaper’s arm, in princes’ purple raiment clad, waved the explorer’s orange banner and thrust it into sacred land. The sky above that land was Seventh Colour – which stormed down in a blink to meet the other six … melting together into pure light… flashing the lightning of perfection … for a long second, flying colours stopped to mix. “The stars look daggers at the planets”, roared the warrior, “only the Sun-stabbed Earth will bleed but life – smell thoughts of rocks, taste dreams of trees, feel fires climb; hear rivers breathe, watch rainbows’ beauty, grace and magic lengthen time.” “Seeds soaked in colours”, gasped the scholar, “garner power... as much as their own body rocketed two times by speed of light… Blood cannot fly that fast – but, strange enough, there must be something or someOne who might.” “Humans”, whispered the poet, “start the journey with three seeds – Blood, Mind and Soul; three colours – Red, Blue, Gold… besides, as if this weren’t wonderful enough, there is a way to grow and mix and merge them as a whole. There may, there should, there has to be a meaning – and we have seen it into perfect light: when seven colours melt inside the seeds and weld them, they’re strong enough to sweep away the night.” Then came the doubt after a triumph – colours split; the high tide stumbled, sank and drowned into the low; the flare died down like wilted flowers’ scent… aloof, three tired drifters limply tried to paint the ebbing dream in hues of yes-and-no. They were now wistful, worn and worried - as they had seen the light, for they had been the light… but now their eyes felt old and their Dream Land lay barren, meaningless and cold; aroused no more, amiss, they stood out there: High Priests of Nothing, brave kings of Nowhere. Soul was still glowing, though – so, kneeling down between the soldier and the sage, the poet gently grabbed, then tossed away their compasses and swords… and, smiling, turned the strange and sacred code into a different language: rainbow-words: “I’m waiting for a spark like the Spirit of Fire trapped in the dark … …waiting for a stroke, like a rioting dragon harnessed in smoke… …waiting for a hand like the bow and the arrow buried in sand… We’re waiting for a spell like the seeds of a storm asleep in a shell… …waiting for a call… and we’ll shine and we’ll fly and we’ll fight to be whole.” “Don’t you remember this? Our first and final harbour; the one-and-only place where we’re untouchable and free – it’s home! Oh, we’ve just proved the Earth is round, the World is round, all Life is round: the longest, greatest journey one can make is back to start, the sweetest destination is back home… and funny things - like ice and fire, hope and fear, day and night – are simply meant to keep alive and wheeling that graceful, heart-shaped planet of one’s own. We came this far to seize one magic second; we reached and touched the very heart of Time… and all we gathered was that heartbeats can’t be kept. Yet, never mind… …the rhythm of the ocean gushes out of every drop; from flippant notes is holy music made; bold rhymes envelop the deep reason of a myth: into the wholeness of the ground a kernel melts to birth another and another surge of pith… As long as we have got a home, a place to catch a breath within the chaos of the swinging and the spinning, we’ll travel back and forth on beats of life and light – another time, another and another… we won’t stop… and, maybe, that’s the gist beyond the meaning…” 2.Parents and children We’ve painted Gods as scarily almighty, scowling parents - stiff on their blazing thrones, nailed to their frozen skies … weird, oversized self-portraits framed in glaring lies. Oh, whining human children, power is no prize… To spin and swing and fall is sweeter than a thousand kingdoms in the sky, as Mother Earth is there to catch us every time… surrendering to storms, allowing winds to blow and carry us means rest … Just let Gods be - they couldn’t give us more than they’ve already given … won’t take from us more than we’re bound to waste. Leave Gods alone – parents do have their own entangled lives, you, selfish brats … and do you really think they’re interested in catching greasy balls of litanies and threats? And please don’t blame them for our foolishness… poor creatures, rash enough themselves to spoil such fussy children; showering us with scents and seasons, winds and waterfalls only to hear us constantly complaining, throwing away and breaking good old toys … yelling for new, expensive, deadly joys. Had they been lazier, they’d have retired, let us run the Game – grumbling, spoilt, reckless gamblers that we are; had they been happier with it themselves, they’d get down to the nursery and teach us - but what would happen if one day they left the doors ajar? Oh, how we’d mock their carelessness and weakness; snub their fading voices, trembling hands, grey hairs; demand and snatch the keys, the crowns, the gowns … fine bunch of hasty, greedy heirs! Now what about that joke – frail humans, godlike hand-made puppets? Good people, puppets we might be – but crafty, knavish, high-tech puppets… we have cut them to suit our figures, haven’t we?… and each of us ends up with the Gods they deserve… the Gods they can afford… the Gods to match the hat and shoes… the Gods to suit complexion… the latest, smartest styles and hues. And we are wearing them so ostentatiously - artfully showing off the label, haughtily scorning those already out-of-trends… Yet life is quite expensive nowadays, there’s little left for famous fashion brands. So how about a clever cheap fake? Ah, never mind the sweating and the itching under ersatz fabrics as long as we can storm downtown all smartened up for quick success: top hat, sunshades, briefcase … and bogus Gods as fashionably-labeled business dress. Strange need for uppity attire… Good Mother Earth welcomes us naked and doesn’t teach us how to check the price tag on the swaddling-clothes of our friends … nor does she feed or soothe only the haute-coutured babies … Good Mother Earth is not aware of fashion trends. As for the Unseen Stars – our unknown, distant Fathers… Mind & Soul alimony seem quite enough to buy a fair share of healthy food and clothes, provide fine education, allow us to become accomplished boys and girls … not to forget that, now and then – as Daddies oddly, whimsically get a taste for fatherhood – they throw the Seventh Colour ball to us, out of the blue … when we behave and if they’re in the mood. Well, they may be a little careless and absent-minded when it comes to family; the choice of watching their offspring from a distance may translate as lightness; but to imagine them obsessed with glamour and to assume they’re men of fashion… haven’t we swerved a tad too far and truly lost the plot by turning our presumptive Dads into a bunch of pompous dashers? Oh yes, it’s so frustrating to grow up not having them around; and our stepdad Time is such an iron-clad, grave guy – severely punishing and never praising… no game, no tale and no excuse accepted… no compromise, no holiday, no joke … no present, no surprise, no fantasy … and such a deadly bore – oh dear, how we all resent this bloke! Yet Mother Earth obeys him blindly; he’s the one to trust: her Mr. Right – solid, reliable, hard-working, loyal, self-made fellow; unlike that easy-going Rover Star King, who charmed, seduced … and left her all alone to look after his noisy, naughty offspring. No wonder that his orphans, raised by a worn-out single mother, yearn for the presence of a gallant, overwhelmingly majestic Father – The Prince of Light, King of Creation, Lord of the First Day… the one to storm into their lives aflare and blow that boring, frowning Time away. They sense his spirit for adventure boiling in their blood; they feel his generosity and charm blaze in their heart; their dreams are streaming from his sparkling eyes and looking for unbounded skies to chart. The need for this mysterious daredevil has been so intense that human children kept reviving His mirage over the years… but the bold, handsome rover stayed forever out of reach – one never to be touched and nowhere to be seen… and the enthusiasm itself for painting our missing parent in chimeric colours started fading, turned into spiteful and frustrated blindness – What if he’d really, really left forever? What if he’d never ever cared? What if we’re nothing more than long-forgotten bastards of the Prince of Lightness? Thereafter, out of bitterness of dreams betrayed, the awe and longing ebbed and went astray; sad, brittle children stiffened up their bitten lips – no one out there for them to play… They ended up, as broken children often do, putting on coats of plates and hats with horns, collecting shiny gimcracks for their armours to adorn - each claiming that He sent the gaudy gifts to “Me, me, me… his one-and-only, most beloved heir”… giving the Unseen Rover different faces, fighting over His colour of the eyes or hair… and troops of solemn children keep on marching, wielding loud banners to conceal the grief and hunger in their eyes… poor foolish, hurt and lonely orphans of the skies. We couldn’t help it – wily, moody kids… did-it-ourselves… revamped a mystery into a horror show of clockwork ghosts and mammoth bones… and now we’re growing up as self immured rebels – each in his hallowed fortress, blindly playing the Big Game of the Maze alone. Why should we feel abandoned and forgotten when each day gentle, playful blows keep moving on and on the crammed old ark … when each night streams of sparks and colours harass and chase away the dark? Why don’t we fully and wholeheartedly enjoy the Game, why don’t we open-mindedly embrace its call… why don’t we willingly release the power of our blood to break that wall? Why do we swing so frightfully between submission, awe and worship on one hand - defiance, anger and frustration on the other? What do we lack, what do we need, what expectation or belief did they so carelessly deceive … why should sons fear or scorn their father? Old story – children of the One-and-Only Star discovering the old theatre, whose walls are hiding doors impossible to seal: old shaky boards whose narrowness we can’t forgive; old play, whose bitter lines we can’t forget; old stuntmen, dressing wounds impossible to heal; old actors, learning parts that they won’t get. There was a time when kids and parents played together; there was a time of freedom, happiness and trust… and suddenly they changed, we changed … then always became never … our house of light collapsed in clouds of dust. Sad, distant, feared Old Men… you wouldn’t be so lonely, misunderstood and lied to; we’d have enjoyed and treasured the old story … if only you had tried to use the wisdom, courage and compassion of three simple words: “I’m sorry…” “Sorry for sharing my own shadows, sorry for turning on and off the light – but I can’t think of better ways to teach you: there’s no belief without a doubt, no hope without the fear, no day without a night. I’m sorry for pretending not to know where darkness came from, blaming Another One for it - since it was just the downfall of my triumph, the madness of my wisdom, the twilight of my dawn…” Bad news: All parents are no more than older children … Good news: … at least, we’re not alone. Bad news: There are no reasons for the Big Game … Good news: … there may, there should, there has to be a meaning – and we may, should, must find it if we try. Bad news: They’ll never give up acting in the dark; we’ll never really see and get to know them as they are… unless a child puts up another house of light – a port of call for the estranged but deeply caring Unseen Star. It’s tough, so tough for parents to admit that they themselves feel doubtful, scared and freezing in the Maze sometimes. But… maybe that’s the meaning of the Game… perhaps that’s what they are expecting us to do with our own lives: be better, keener, braver players that enjoy and treasure the sheer taste of passion, miracle and pleasure… stop worrying, stop hiding, stop complaining … release their tired shoulders, fading hearts, old minds and pass the burden to a fearless, sunny breed that would defy the Maze, embrace the thrill, complete the quest… Good news: that breed exists – the Masters of the Game, the burning-people. Much more than winners: players at their best. 3.The Burning People In-and-out, high-and-low, yes-and-no … inspire-expire, bloom-fade, gather-give… as long as the rainbow-wheel turns, Blood flows and Mind flies and Soul shimmers… Life breathes and travels and burns. We have been handed seeds of life and grains of light, but our parents didn’t warn us we’d be prone to falling from the minute of our rise, summoned to leave since the first day of our arrival, sentenced to lose everything that we keep. The Game just isn’t fair – but wildly cruel and beautiful… and round … the highest high would only match the deepest deep. Maybe stepfather Time – who pushes, rushes, scolds and punishes – is our greatest friend, most helpful and devoted parent, after all. He didn’t set the rules – but helps us learn them: he breaks – to urge us build; he takes – to make us give… Humans are not allowed to own, to hold, to spare - but they may flow and fly… and they can shine and share. Mother Earth gave us courage, will and wisdom – to fight, fast and endure; the Prince of Light brought faith and hope and love to glitter in the sun… but when the darkness comes we’re on our own, alone… unless we meet the Burning People on their run. There they are… tenderly sheltering within mysterious, sparkling sprites… feeding those beautiful and cruel aliens on their blood and bones, their days and nights… birthing them bright, raising them strong, flying them high, setting them free – hot sparks of inspiration, glaring waves of passion, foaming streams of dreams. They sometimes make us stop and cry, the Burning People – the kind of thunder-lightning storm that shatters, scatters, blows and clears… some other times they make us spin and smile – stirring and steering rusty, creaky, long-forgotten wheels. Either they make us cry or make us smile, they capture and unfold the sweet and scary miracle and curse… and leave us staggered… and relieved… to be alive. The Burning People are the ones who pass along the gift and mystery of Fire while others stumble, trip and shiver in the dark – too weak, too poor, too cold to save a heartbeat for those who shared their warmth or sent a spark. The Burning People do not mind - they can’t be daunted and won’t feel robbed or disappointed… they thrive on giving, grow complete by spreading their secret, the ultimate command and wisdom of the Universe: don’t stop, don’t steal, don’t keep… and you shall speed the flow and spread the glow and feed the deep. The beauty, warmth and wonder of the world – which we’ve been blessed to sense from time to time – rise from the ashes of the Burning People and fly upon the wings of their chime. It’s such a cruel and beautiful emotion to remember how one of Them happened to be – for such short years, for so long seconds – my own child… a roving star, a bird of light took shelter in my own home for a while. Rose as a smiling baby of a Sun, grew as a magic messenger sharing the secrets of his Star… and waved good-bye as an amazing, peaceful rainbow – flying so high, aiming so far. He played the Game so willingly, so open-mindedly and so wholeheartedly… loyal and humble as a soldier, regal as a prince, hard-working as a scholar… firm and committed as a sower, fired as a poet, keen as an explorer… burning the dark, cold memories of his blood in a bright blaze of selflessness and strength, building a house of light around – higher than skies, deeper than seas, tougher than time, firmer than ground. There were no shadows in this home he built for us – no fears, no locks, no walls, no stains, no night… just shards of stars, just drops of dreams, just waves of beauty – sent by the daring, charming, generous Prince of Light. We met Him there, too, for such long seconds; we grew to understand without words his Story… but only when he came for one last time, he spoke – a deep, heart-rending, soft “I’m sorry…” I watch the sun rise, catch a snowflake, listen to the sea, remembering my little bird of light: he’s here, he’s there, he’s everywhere - he walked his way, he played his game, he fought his fight. I miss his eyes, I miss his smile… but those sweet, secret waves of peace keep comforting and telling me: “The little prince regained his realm, the little ship surpassed the storm, the little traveler got back home; the little soldier may rest, the little star can shine, the little bird is free…” 4.Seeds and Sparks The Game A warrior in red, a sage in blue, a golden poet; it seems the perfect party for a start – Blood can be bold, Mind can be magical and Soul can shine… but it’s a long way back, to recompose the whole from which they came apart. The Game is on – the Big Game of the Maze, the Quest, the Journey. It’s just a game… but if you lose it, any tear of perfect light that drips away will change into a wave of guilt and waste… frightening to face and terrible to taste. Turn to the burning-people, then, to learn the spells; search for the secret stars to share their glow; gather and give away all sparks and colours; spin with the wild whirl; go with the hot flow. Red-blooded trooper, golden-hearted bard, blue-minded seeker – each save your colours, let them meet and, once they mix, The Three will come together as The Six: poets who dare, soldiers who dream become explorers… emotion armed with knowledge, wisdom spurred by feelings make strong builders’ teams… out of a visionary’s battle and a free man’s grit bolt the most passionately-coloured, princely dreams. Not only have been human children blessed with the desire to restore the balance of The Six – lead, build, explore, feel, think and fight; they also long to dive into the Seventh Colour sky – where rainbow-fires blaze and fire-rainbows fly… stop Time, complete the Game, recast the Light. The Travellers Blood is about how tough a fight you can face; Soul is about how bright a fire you can make; Mind is about how long a journey you can take – how far you can sail, how high you can fly. Blood is the ember for all mystifying quests that spark out of forgotten fires past. When every tree’s been felled and chopped and burned, Soul is the kernel standing last. Soul splinters darkness, Blood defies oblivion; Mind is the web, the sail, the wing, the flow and flight that’s casting sparks of light on memories and running streams of memories into light. Mind glides, Mind flies… Mind weaves, Mind tears… Mind builds, Mind breaks… Mind fights, Mind fears… whimsical starlet in her make-up cabin, trapped in swings, switching the weapons and the wings: sly, shining sword that blinds its bearer, majestic eagle in suicidal dive… or fearless spear aiming blue-sky secrets and faithful hawk to hunt down Time? Mind humbly serves as slave of freedom, generous thief and loyal beast… shamelessly cheats as painless killer, poisoned medicine and faithless priest. Mind is a giant trickster-tree of many roots and fruits: up-here, a dome of song, a home of soft, unruffled birds… down-there, a jungle gym for hungry, angry monkeys shrieking, smiting, stealing, fighting… sometimes its quiet, steady juices save the starving, build up their brittle bones and wash away their tears… some other times, to lure the lazy and befoul the gluttons, it shoots will-o’-the-wispy sprouts of doubts and fears. Mind is a wave, a battle cry of storms - the flood to thrash, to drown and bring a thriving citadel to rout … Mind is a well, a lullaby for corms - the drops that stab to death a desert’s blazing heart of drought… here, it breaks a warship; there, it sails to shore a nutshell boat… kingdoms of science sink; beggars of dreams may float. Mind is a wind, a sigh of skies – that blows or carries, lifts or lies. Mind is the pulse, the in-and-out, the high-and-low… the beat, the day-and-night, the yes-and-no. Mind weaves the web of stealthy light that each and every Secret Star gracefully spreads over the beautiful, mysterious Hidden Planets that we are. Blood is the hearth, Soul is the fire, Mind is the wind – blowing to keep it alive… and the river that’s flowing, through canyons of Space, sailing the fleet of the Whole safe into harbours of Time. The Seventh Colour Blood – the red planet, Soul – the golden star… bold, loyal, generous and kind… wisely or whimsically ruled or ruffled by the blue streams and winds of Mind. Mind is the sassy heiress and despoiler of two realms: meant to explore, thrilled to defy, eager to conquer, born to reign… Mum and Dad’s hope and worry, comfort and dejection, pride and pain… in turns a scruffy outlaw and resplendent queen, residing in two worlds – at the same time, seen and unseen. She’s wandering and winding through the maze of flighty orbits that begird the two men in her life – the Warlord and the Poet, Blood and Soul… and her two halves, the Scholar and the Dreamer, seldom make a whole… she knows their stubborn clash may freeze or set both worlds aflame - unless they tamely team to play an all-or-nothing game… courting in turns each fiery colour… cloaked in steamy patience, the twin misty twisters… walking on thinning ice entangled, almost doomed to drown - either as tragic widows or embittered spinsters… but, faults and tricks apart, Mind’s brave… and Her Serene and Stormy Highness wishes to be surrounded at her grave by all the humble kings, all heathen healers, fearless nuns, wise warriors, tough dreamers she can birth and raise – she wants the rainbow-children to inherit all the treasures, all the shades. Still, there’s one colour to surpass her magic… the double-headed charmer, sorceress and fairy, shall not succeed to hold the Seventh Colour with her might; it can’t be lured, imprisoned, bought or stolen … that one is either Soul’s award or Blood’s birthright. To stop the world from spinning for a long, long second; the meaning of a lifetime in a trice to find – it happens once in a blue moon to barefoot pilgrims wrapping the music in their soul round all the colours in their hands, round all the mirrors in their mind. The Seventh doesn’t bow to swords or ask for shrines, it doesn’t show when begged or hunted for; it takes a spell that only Burning People can recall… and when a sacred spark has flared, for an enchanted, endless second, Blood and Mind and Soul remember - to breathe and glide and glow as One; their doing might not have a name yet - but never would or could it be undone. Then, there’s that sparse and scary breed of humans - their skies are always Seventh Colour lit; they have to face a different, tougher challenge: they needn’t search for it, but live with it. They’re odd, they’re outcast, misunderstood and feared… their eyes throw Seventh Colour spears, their smile stabs like a Seventh Colour knife… doomed carriers of the rarest illness in the Universe – severely suffering from Life. Their blood is thundering the heartbeats of the World… the storms in their Mind are travelling at speed of Light… the hungry fires within their souls are feeding on the darkest, coldest coals of Night. The Seventh Colour as a gift for life can be a burden and a curse – as close to darkness as birth is to death… as lightning is to blindness… as thunder is to deafness… as wisdom is to madness…it’s so deep, dark and thick that living in its shade is fearsomely freezing… and any other one would have been poisoned by the air this wayward maverick is breathing. It’s terrible to feel that weapon in Blood’s hands, sharp to the touch… painful to watch that gale shred Mind’s thin wings… it’s frightening to hear Soul’s frozen shell crack in its icy clutch. So scary… and so childish, though, that raging rebel: he threatens and defies and blows and thunders… but all he really misses is a home: a place to treasure and adorn with wonders he’s gathered in a journey of his own. The other Colours know they needn’t fear this angry brother… so wild and troubled, yet so generous and kind… he may be wearing the most wanted of all crowns – but still a child … the heir and spitting image of his Father. They’ll take him home to tame his bitter smile and edgy eyes … he’ll share the tales and secrets of the skies. 5.The Story of No-One “Once upon No Time, snug in the halcyon cocoon of Never, over the peaceful realm of Nowhere, No-One majestically reigned… the land where Nothing was and Nothing happened bowed to his power, still yet unrestrained.” Yes, we can take a huge amount of pride in having grasped such crystal-clear nonsense… surrounded as we are by Everything, imprisoned on the giant ship of Everywhere, steadily driven by the Everlasting flow… dumb understudies in a drifting show. Lost fellowship of hopeless mutineers, we’re either lashed for less or crucified for more… why wouldn’t we paint Never on our flag as the blind lighthouse of our shore? How might the prisoners of Being imagine freedom otherwise than flying flashy kites of Nothing; the worn-out slaves rowing within the bowels of their galley, trapped in a journey with no end, how could they dream of rest in other place than Nowhere - that peaceful and forgotten land? What better name than No-One for the King of Nowhere, God of Nothing? - grim captain of a creaky ark crowded with ghosts and mammoth bones… sad, queer craft whose crew are throwing food and water overboard. As far as sailing children can agree, this is the one-and-only memory they share… the one to feed their hazy dreams of glory, lighten these days of slavery and doubt, bring them together as proud peers of royal blood: their serene un-being as unyielding Lords of the Lost Land of Nowhere, the realm where each of them was king - under the famous name of No-One, Master of No Thing. And then – then there’s a ceaseless, stubborn, barren, useless struggle to recast that Something… a giant library of witchcraft books written in long-forgotten languages… carnivorous plants thicket we persist in growing… a mean, pathetic fight over a glass bead crown that widowed queens keep trimming up – then throwing… Isn’t it sad, isn’t it mad, isn’t it foolish to keep quarrelling over the names of messed-up skeletons and worship sneering skulls and brittle bones, rather than rearing living, breathing creatures on the wane – rejected, cheated, hurt, despised, unknown… Yes, Something happened… Something we don’t know… but do we really care to hear a threadbare history in a dead language, when we’ve been blessed with dreams that breathe and fly and glow? Why can’t we all agree it’s sound to paint a dream exactly as we see and hear and smell and taste and feel it: in human hues and beats of in-and-out, of here-and-there, of high-and-low… of day-and-night, of now-and-then, of yes-and-no? Oh, we might get as foolish, mad and sad an answer as the question - and yet, as long as we can smile… what better place to smile than opposite a mirror made of a child’s wide-open eyes? Now, couldn’t we just skip that tricky “Something” part and follow, kids… plain, childish stories tell no lies. So, where were we? … “Well, Something must have happened, though, as seeds of storm broke through and cracked their shells… an eerie cry of Never hit the utmost note of Now as timeless peace was stabbed by short-lived spells… a flaming breath melted the icy, stiff No Where into hot, roaring streams of Here and There… a raging heart-attack splintered the core of Nothing, and No-One was besprinkled Everywhere… discharged, diffused in every spinning, swinging drop of Being… shredding the spells that stabbed the silence into twin rags of Shadow and of Light – that no belief should be without a doubt, no hope without the fear, no day without a night. Silence and Darkness bled and scattered sounds and sparks of Life around… huge heartbeats ticking newborn tears of Time… low voices whispering waves of newborn words… wide-open, glowing eyes of newborn storms. And then… Somehow, Somewhere, Sometime, three rainbow-spheres rowed out of the foam, sprang off the fret, danced through the storm – and met… for a long second, Magic, Grace and Beauty merged into Someone whose strong wings laid waste dark winds of doubt and fear… whose iron right hand clutched and thrust into the nearest eye of storm a lightning spear… whose velvet left hand stroked the Night and carved the Light… whose loud voice spread the bold, defiant words of World’s first tale… and World’s unbounded skies mirrored unbounded oceans on which huge ships set sail. One first long second only granted to pick out his match and mate and maiden ark of choice; and that which guided the tall, winsome wheelman was called Music – painted by dancing stars across the Noise. Taletellers say that Earth’s blue, graceful caravel has always been his flagship - and heavens have been moved to sweep away the gale, to take her to the most flamboyant harbours, defying fears of ravages and fail. He took her there to be adorned with splendid stardust, raw wreaths of whirling winds and rains… bedecked with masts of fire-mountains and lightning… loaded with lavish fragrances, charms, gems and grains… He raised the rainbow-flags to wave and shine, laced them with Seventh Colour haze…but there was no way out… he knew it… as he had sensed the power of the Maze. He understood the crystal-clear nonsense of Perfection… that long, long seconds have to end,,, that Time can’t lend them to be kept… that they were his to share and spend. He sighed… and for a stunning last long second embraced her in high tides of Perfect Light… then hid his face, silently cloaked himself in Shadows… whispered three words… and vanished in the night. Maybe he ran to heal his own unrest and fret – how draining to fill up a dream… to lay a last touch on a work of art… to grow ripe just to trigger ravage… and never know if there might be another start. Maybe he went away to sweep the dust of madness off his dreams… to shake the worm of doubt out of his triumph… to hide the grain of Death that Life itself had born; maybe the rules of his own Game commanded to hate the love for that long second of perfection waiting to be torn… The ultimate Artist, enshrouded in spleen… no way to be touched, no place to be seen. Maybe he’s up, maybe he’s down… maybe he’s peaceful, maybe sad… maybe he’s in, maybe he’s out… yet he can’t fool us – he’s our Dad. He might be sailing other ships… he might be resting for a while… but we inherited his eyes… and we can flash his winsome smile. We breathe the winds of change blown by his battles… we burn in our hearths hot embers of his heart… we storm the seas and skies he founded… searching and catching glimpses of his Rainbow-Art. He must be there, Anywhere… his bloodstream thundering the heartbeats of the World… his mind’s winds traveling at speed of Light… the hungry fires within his soul still feeding off the darkest, coldest coals of Night. We shouldn’t feel afraid, ashamed, annoyed to save for him our trust, our love, our smiles – he’s just a brilliant older child, you see… he also sometimes fears and doubts and cries… He can’t be Everywhere, All the Time… perhaps he’s tired, lonely in the dark… but Sometimes, Somewhere we may sense a shade of his amazing colours in a spark. We miss him…but the legacy of Light keeps streaming, stirring, steering from afar… he left behind his sunny shell of Beauty and seeds we cannot see… yet feel and know they are. He sometimes sends his Grace and Magic to float on waves of stealthy light… they’re captured by the Secret Stars that wait their turn to tear the night. They’re waiting for a Hidden Planet inside a human child to call… and share their hidden light and power to make the little planet whole.” That’s it… why should we spend our too short seconds trying to fill a sad and useless Gallery of Ghosts? Why pay curators, keepers, experts to lecture, guard and argue round the One-and-Only Picture they like most? Why should we hang that One-and-Only Portrait in a faked, faded sky flung on a wall… there’ll always be a witty, naughty child to reach it – and paint on whiskers or a funny mole. Why not go outdoors… under the rainbow, near a waterfall, within the magic garden of another human child… the Light is there, and then – a mirror-shard will do… just draw your own face near it… look … and smile. 6.The Maze Yes-and-No And here we are – another generation of tired sailing children – equally fearing and yearning for land. Gone are the days when our splendid ship set sail… crowded with Everybody… cheering, excited sailors drunk with dreams, illusions and beliefs… rowing so willingly, so open-mindedly, and so wholeheartedly… and that strong, gallant SomeOne steering the wheel for years and years and years… …until, oh dear… strange news from the blue, graceful craft… a smart kid sneaked on captain’s bridge and found the helm on unexpected course: the ship heading Nowhere… and – stately clad in doubt, majestically crowned with fear - Lord No-One looking forward to get there. That was a recklessness we can’t forgive… trying to break the chest you can’t unseal; a desperate attempt we won’t forget – touching a wound impossible to heal… Yes, we flee home only to find ourselves so badly missing it and longing to return – released and then recalled by a relentless heart… but the abandoned lodge of No-One has been crushed; there is no turning back… and there won’t be another start. “We can’t go back to the green, peaceful shores of Nowhere; that lonely beacon, Never, put out its light for good”… the youngster’s eyes dripped darkness as he spoke - and after a consuming second, stared-down and downcast No-One understood. “The home without is gone… Time had its walls pulled down… there is no shore behind… no king, no throne, no crown…” “We can team up, old man… you’re tired but I’m keen; I’m passionate, you’re wise… let’s find a home within. Don’t count, don’t weigh, don’t measure; let’s just go… let’s play the childish game of yes-and-no… maybe we’re not supposed to get back or get out – but stay… and somehow build a house of light somewhere, someday… Maybe there’s Something we can get… maybe the spark that never dies… and you’ll find comfort in my smile… and I’ll see SomeOne in your eyes.” In-and-Out Not all smart kids like wise old men around… not all wise men approve of smart kids’ ways… it’s tough for them to row in the same boat… and it takes Seven to unwind the Maze! They’ll have to search and mend the ailing vessel, to put up in its core a house of light – then travel further, deeper inwards… till swirling skies meat seas and day meets night. There are not many left inside to join the journey… rebellious old hands have rushed out of the belly of the galley; there comes a time when any child of Earth, orphan of Stars discovers Fashion – and models grown-ups’ clothes with pomp and passion. Crippling, outrageous and distressing dare… how carelessly they tamper with and raffishly then wear the regal ornaments – as if they were some jingling jokes, some whims… pathetic jesters masquerading kings… sceptres of selfishness and crowns of crime and orbs of greed… death masks cemented in a grin and cataphracts pretending to be skin. So sad, so frightening that day of wasteful growing-up…they shed their thin cocoons of Beauty, Grace and Magic as worthless, out-of-fashion rags and call the naked child of Earth and Stars a shameless beggar… the day they mummify their dreams and dress them up in glaring, hollow armours of indifference: “And now get lost you stupid, stubborn punk – or meet my dagger!” Maybe a day like any other day; maybe it’s worth a sigh, maybe a grin… oh, nothing much to say – it’s just the day they lost the chance to find a home within. But what a touching choice if they decide to keep those humble gowns, walk back inside – guided and warmed by stealthy sparks and words – and mock the radars, fashion magazines and swords. Here they are together, keen to enter, begin the sweet and scary, stupid, stubborn search: the warrior, the poet and the scholar… the prince, the builder, the explorer… and lonely No-One with a brave new heart: old crew, old ship, new story set to start. They’re all out-there, they’re all in-here… believing, doubting, loving, hating, fearing, fighting… mourning and celebrating the wildly cruel, beautiful and round, mysterious adventure of being at the same time star and planet, guest and host, hunter and prey, traveller and way. Their parents watch with chests and temples thumping… their fingers crossed, their eyebrows raised… well-wishing, worried, grateful, thrilled and proud… amazed. Old Time is there, too… to preach and teach and take the toll: “Just gather Everything, my child, then give… You can’t be Any One unless you’re All.” The Prince of Light – ah, he’s a man, alright… an older child – he boasts and winks and fusses amongst the other Princes of the Universe: “There goes my kid - the tall and handsome one… oh well, a Seventh Colour crown would match the eyes… yes, by tomorrow I shall see to it and have this done.” Good Mother Earth still doesn’t care for crowns and gowns… the only thing she needs to see is her sweet baby’s smile: “Just like his Daddy, isn’t he?” As we walk in, Mum’s words keep echoing behind: “Wherever you will go, whatever you may do, you’ll always be my child… I dearly wish I could – but I can’t give you more today than you were given at your birth: a scary, sunny, solemn, funny, plain, overwhelming, touching, wild, absurd, amazing, random life on Earth.” Up-and-Down I. Entrance Hall Busy but peaceful in the shadow of a giant tree… rustle of leaves and fingers knitting flimsy strings: unspoken words, dried flowers, broken wings. Then you can slowly, solemnly move on… when having tied those frail cords to the Tree of Thought… too bad they weren’t long enough to wind them round the trunk – all you could do was choose a branch and pick a twig and make a knot… and feel a sudden shiver wondering how long they would hold on – the branch, the twig, the thought… Oh, you can trip around and spend a lifetime in that shadow, stretching the twines second by second, step by step and fear by fear… or drop them down – and wisely, madly try to break away, break free, break out, break clear. All praise and love for the old tree… the food, the peace, the shade it brings… but, at some point, you must decide – one cannot sail with strings or fly with strings. II. The Rooms There is a room for everyone within the Maze… dark, silent, cozy spots… oozing a sense of confidence and comfort that only toughly-earned belongings proudly displayed can give. There’s room for everything inside – cheap, faked, antique emotions, stolen illusions, borrowed thoughts… the one thing you can’t do in-there is live… with warders slowly knocking heavy boots along the narrow, winding corridors of Hollow Fame and Glaring Lies… staring and sneering at your vain possessions, splendid uselessness and empty eyes… but oh, of course – they have their own dark, doorless rooms, the warders… and, anytime you like, you’re free to solemnly inspect and contemplate their own crammed shells – it’s a free space, the Matrix… full of self-confident, trustworthy, open people swapping cells. III. Abstract Art Gallery Country life Vast, noble herds of gentlecattle grazing green-painted sand and pebbles… majestically sipping bluish mud from frantically advertised blue swamps. All peace and quiet… and lovely clockwork larks spontaneously performing clockwork tunes… deaf, lame and blind sweet little rabbits giggling and playing hide-and-seek among the dunes. Still, there’s a tree… hosting a jaded snake that dozes on a branch, I think… but I can’t tell for sure, because it’s winter… and the bejeweled tree’s all wrapped in hurtfully resplendent furs of sable, stoat and mink. City life All genial, smiling, shining faces: people who lunch, lend joys, borrow sorrows… make do, make hay, make friends... make up, make out, make over... make sense, make believe, make waves, make amends… chit-chat, wish-wash, mish-mash, ping-pong, zig-zag, sing along, relax… feel free to join, dear guests; you’re welcome… but please no touching – it’s wax! Carnival Hall A lamp of every simple-minded moth: huge, open-air, breathtaking ballroom… soft, mesmerizing sounds of sirens’ voices… enticing, freedom-scented breeze… clusters of gleaming constellations… more than enough to lift you in a blink, floating up fast on a high tide of feeling… and – bang! … that was no sky… it’s only the damn ceiling! Paper planes How high are the walls of the Maze? Good question… Well, high enough to daunt a hardened climber… and low enough to fly a simple-minded paper plane. You cannot map the Maze, you’ve got no compass – but finding fallen paper planes along the way are the most powerful of omens… and can make one’s day. Secret Gardens Yes, there are secret gardens scattered all along the Maze… filled with enchanted herbs that spread a rainbow haze. Too bad they live just long enough to catch a glimpse, to catch a breath; the secret gardens bloom no longer than a heartbeat… then they fade to death. Sometimes, when we get lost, we happen to return to places where we’ve been – and cannot understand why our hearts miss a beat. They’re echoing the restless ghost of a forgotten garden… too far off to meet. IV. The Natural History Museum Dust, rust and cobwebs… skeletons and ghosts… it hurts to enter – tripping upon thrashed bones of crumbling memories and forgotten lies; oh, let them cry and curse… don’t mourn, don’t stop… you need, you have to see once more the butterflies. They’ve got the colours… they’ve still got the colours… you can’t remember how you caught them, when and where… who knows, who cares, what does it matter – since butterflies and colours are still there. Just close your eyes and see them fly; remember… sense and enjoy their power to reflect the light – and turn into a flower, flame or rainbow; still, there’s no day without a night… and, after sunset, broken skeletons were splintered and torn by hungry packs of rats… dark swarms of butterflies began to bustle as overwhelming clouds of bats. Now you recall the sad and sacred ritual…collecting butterflies was neither cruelty nor fun – you had to carefully capture, mercifully kill and dearly treasure their too short time of flying in the sun. You only nailed and killed the fears and doubts they carried - but saved the sunny shades about to die; it’s worth to trade the wounds on wings, the pain on colours; it hurts, it heals to kill and keep a butterfly. And now you’re grateful and relieved to see them there, young and daring – beliefs, illusions, dreams that failed… all dead, but shining, as you’d stopped their turning into bats – remembering them crushed, deceived, betrayed. Still, you don’t actually hate the bats… explorers of all hidden caves, abandoned homes and narrow corners in your mind; brave little creatures they are, though… and, as they feed on vermin – useful, too, and kind. If vermin feed on flowers… as fields are turning into deserts on your planet, there’s little you may save and nothing you can do; it could take years of heavy rain until they harboured life again… but deserts, though, are hot and pure – they kill the vermin, too. You’d better set on them a storm of bats when vermin feed on fruit and try to make you carry, hide and bury guilt inside… instead of rottenness at heart, you can afford some whirls and heavy flutter in your mind. Just keep a fair cluster in the attic… when swarms of nauseating little beasts would try to sneak and spread the threat of turning your house rotten, free the bats – and never mind the mind, just save the soul… Mind’s thunderstorms are easily forgotten. Mind’s magic gardens can be frightening and wild… but who needs well-trimmed hedges to surround bleak, solemn graveyards crammed with miracles and thrills…now, won’t you bear a wound that hurts than take the cheater pill that kills? Why envy other people’s ship-shaped flower-beds and straight flat paths if you can gather volcanoes, ice-fields, jungles, rivers, deserts, mountains, thunderstorms and rainbows altogether? A sweet and scary endlessness to roam about… strong winds of freedom to take off and glide… light ships to sail, dark storms to trail… new shores to land, old dreams to ride. Oh, you may choose to lock the gates and seal the doors and stage inside a neatly dignified and peaceful freezing… or wildly sail and fly and wear scars with pride: all battered, bruised – but warm and breathing. You’ve gathered sparks and embers that may burn your fingers – but also wonderfully prove you’re not alone… and then, when feeling cold or doubtful, hurt or tired – just come home. Sit by the fire, rest and close your eyes… remember the still shining, wildly-coloured butterflies. V. The Tower You’ve got sparks, you’ve got colours – now go… in-and-out, up-and-down, yes-and-no… go to that jagged tower, overgrown with thorns… and that forbidden, hidden door… …your heart is dripping bitterness and oozing guilt as the key turns… remembering the faithful, awkward baby beast you locked in-there centuries ago… expecting scattered bones and splinters to be covering the floor… and then it stops, as time itself has stopped… …oh, no – no anger-bats, no sorrow-webs, no bones… …oh, yes – amazingly serene, majestically patient, there it waits… so sweet and scary, shy and stubborn, eager and defiant, set to fly… your gracefully-winged unicorn did not die. Music And suddenly you hear a voice that calls your name - a muffled wail. The Keeper’s quarters – shadowy and cold. A lavish dinner-table. Cups and plates of gold. An old man on his throne, aloof and frail. You enter – hunger, thirst and silence pounding. The old man nods, stands up and offers you his throne. You sit down and you freeze. He sneers. You shiver. Chains rattle. Shadows thunder. Mirrors roar. This used to be the Music Chamber, you remember… and smoking in the fireplace you see the hips of violins ablaze … you sense the frozen terror of blindfolded ballerinas straying through the Maze. * “So… shall we?” said the bespectacled, distinguished gentleman in front of me. “You say you aren’t hungry, child… but since we’re here, that’s what we’re supposed to do: you either care to slice and swallow this old piece of meat… or I’ll be eating you. You see, nobody’s entering a game to lose it, that’s for sure… and would you please wipe off that sneer! The rules, the tools, the choices are the same for all of us and we must eat to stay alive … a little closer, please – thank you: delicious ear… Strange… you don’t seem to care – but I can teach you, kid, a thing or two: when you don’t give a damn about hunting, eating, winning, when you break the rules – they break you, too. Or… do you happen to belong to that pathetic breed that feeds on dreams… ha, I have touched a pretty sensitive young nerve this time, it seems! The liver now – thank you, my favourite… mmm… bitter – just as I expected… you people can’t accept you have been eating, drinking, breathing lies… the healthy truth is simple, raw and tasty: all birds are made of water, fat and protein – not notes; there is no music when La Traviata dies. What you can’t touch and you can’t weigh and you can’t eat is not; and they don’t ride winged horses or use silver swords in real wars, you lot.” He helped himself so sternly and effectively, the plain old man, that in about an hour he got there… the thing that’s technically called a brain… oh, there you’d have expected it to hurt – a lot… but, strangely, although he was deeply cutting through – no pain. He seemed bewildered, too: “I’ve finished – or almost… there’s only bones now… and I so distinctly remember having swallowed lips and eyes… but who are you, that are still gazing… you, that sing… and you, that snigger – artful bunch of lies?” And then I knew – he had to eat me, bit by bit and nerve by nerve, the Ghoul, to finally acknowledge and accept – they didn’t count, the odds and ends that he could slice and swallow – it only mattered what was left. “Don’t you sing me your creaky tunes, fat leech, when you can’t even read a score… and don’t you dare to talk of wings when you can’t raise above the floor! You say that what you cannot touch or weigh is not – but eat your words: I’m here, I’m alive!… and didn’t need raw meat for dinner to survive… You may have eaten all the audience, the orchestra, the prima donna, the conductor – but there’s still something you can’t do. You cannot touch it, weigh it, slice it - and that’s exactly why you couldn’t eat the music, too!” * Then colours start to gleam like brimming teardrops in your eyes… the sneering mirrors blast and darkness shrieks and dies. You saved the Music. You are free - you broke the chains of lies. No thoughts. One feeling to be felt, one deed to do. Just trust the unicorn – he waited. Just ride the unicorn – he knew. The embers in your mind explode in constellations, glow and shine… they show the way, and colours tell the time. The magic beast kneels down for you to mount - and then you know. That’s it. It is. You are. You’re heading home. VI. The Mountain How come you haven’t seen it until now… it’s there… dwarfing the walls, defying any dare: your chance to outplay the Maze, to snub, to tower, to leave it shrunk and humble at your feet… and swelling passion, throbbing fervor stir up the stumbling, slumping beat… He’s taken you this far; now getting frail and worn… embrace his hanging head, dismount the unicorn. You have grown up; your loyal servant has grown old. But you’ve been kindling fires, working wonders of your own. Unfold your pinions and take off… then ride the gentle winds and glide… his wings are yours now - you’ve become an eagle… you can’t hide. Oh, what a strange and bitter triumph, though - you thought the Maze would lie defeated on the ground… only to find your wings entangled with the winds… only to feel the Maze entwining with your mind. Exhausted trekker, sparks have waned and colours strayed in carousels of Time… your dreams are trapped and songs are matted in the chime… So what? You are. There is a Mountain there to be climbed.. And up you go… and up you go, on foot this time… and leave behind all swamps and deserts, walls and ceilings in your mind. So funny, though – no sound… no flowers and no scents, no trees, no house; the sight is awesome but the air is thin… and everywhere around, just ice and clouds. Dad’s cheering: “Fearless kid… tough kid… feeding on clouds and melting ice… unlike that crowd of lazy, fed-up fools down-there, pretending to play chess and casting dice.” But as you’re slowly crawling – frozen, out of breath – Mum’s cry is joining, staggering along: “Don’t stop… you can’t make this your home… you don’t belong!.” So, after having reached the highest peak that both of them created to reward your strive – don’t breathe that air; just grab the magic second, dive… and gracefully roll down the slopes… down… down… down…. down…. down… home. Alive. VII. Anthills and Beehives Dizzy, but breathing… yes, it’s warm at home, after that stubborn search out-there, in the cold… but as you’re stepping in the garden, there it hisses, the sneering rattle-snake of madness: “They have been thriving, since you left, those beasts – the jaguar of doubt, the elephant of sadness. One has been hunting down all colours, the other trampled on their cries… and heavy murk’s been pouring since… this land of yours now drowns and dies.” Oh, you’ve been drunk with dreams before – and woke up in a hangover of spite – but now… that muddy wave of darkness has covered every blade of light. “Why, in the first place, did you leave… what was it all about, that reckless climb? … some twinkles in your hand, could they be worth an age of emptiness within your mind?” You had to go away, so far away and for so long, only to reach new heights, to storm new shores… while rampant beasts were laying waste your land – uncared for, abandoned and ignored. You’re haunted by the fading ghosts of colours and poisoned by the thickness of the air; you’re missing that long second of perfection… and, sharply, you remember – it’s still there! Yes – painfully, amazingly alive… it’s burning both your fingers and your mind. Strong waves of memories wash the pain away as you catch up your breath, recall your story… and that outright and unforgettable “I’m sorry!... There is no up without down, no gain without loss, no day without a night; no triumph left unstained by doubt… but what you fear, you must fight.” “We tried and tried so hard to save it through The Hours… and All we Ever gathered was that… it wasn’t ours. You take it… here it is… the spark that never dies… the spell that never fails… the story with no lies.” They delicately slipped it in your hand… swift touch, caressing fingers of the blind… then – grateful, brightened up, relieved – they smiled… And you remember what they told you while gently closing all those doors: “You’ve earned this perfect, shining second – but, mind you, child: it can’t be yours. Just let it loose – or it will end; it’s only lent to share and spend. That’s the supreme command and wisdom of the World: don’t stop the Game, don’t keep, don’t own, don’t hold.” Oh, how could you forget; unclench your fist… release the Light to drain the land and lift the mist. You sigh… you may have saved your garden, but it’s empty, still… and, suddenly, you stumble… an anthill! Peacefully busy, humbly wise, complete… it’s there – alive, more precious than a thousand mountains – at your feet. And there… they have been also waiting, all this time – peacefully busy, humbly wise, childishly wild… waiting for you to share to the last crumbs the spark, waiting for it to chase away the dark. Those good old bees are not at all majestic, colourful or flashy – but would you be so kind and mend the hive; seems fair enough – help them and they’ll help you to stay alive. Any fields, any flowers would do for a start… and you won’t mind a sting now and then… but there’s more than a cramming of crops in your heart – you’ll admit… it’s a question of when. Admit and understand that neither wax nor honey were the things you wanted… small candle, little food – not quite enough to make you truly, deeply keen… it’s the sweet sway, the magic beat of gather-give you’re after… and, at its core – the hidden eye of storm … the queen. You wish to build, Lord of the Bees, to reign and to explore… and save, amongst the swinging and the spinning – the trigger and the harbour of all sparkles, spurs and springs: your planet, Prince of Lightness… and your meaning. 7.The End (?) Plain, childish stories you must deeply trust – they never, never tell you lies: the heart of Time’s been only reached and touched by rainbow-eagles, unicorns and butterflies. You’re going to become and be those stunning species, as soon as you have filled your land with flying colours, sparks and sounds… don’t worry, anyone can do it – for Earth is round… and World is round… and Life is round. As long as you keep stumbling upon anthills in the grass, don’t be afraid – your magic garden won’t decay or fade. As long as bees keep buzzing in the hive, go on – the beat of light and life will take you home. Yes, home – that place where games are played with passion, won in smiles and lost in laughter; where every story ends in “ever after”. Plain, childish games are meaningfully clear… plain, childish tales are wise and powerful… plain, childish words can charm and steer beyond any command or law or rule. No greater joy for kids and parents than to play together; no words more touching than a deep “I’m sorry…”; no crown or star to shed a brighter light than world’s most plain and childish bedtime story. Good parents teach a little, preach a little, scold a little… love a lot; and, after giving everything they’ve gathered, can only hope to be whole-heartedly forgiven for what they childishly forgot: “It’s no use scratching paint, climbing walls, drawing maps, stretching strings… the journey in the Maze is all about colours, fires, sails and wings. About breathing winds of battles… about sowing seeds of storm… about parching fields of darkness… and then, at dawn – returning home. Yes, home… the place where rainbow seeds have spread a blooming garden – where every sprout has reason, root and rhyme… where in-and-out or up-and-down mean on-and-on-forever… where anything can happen, anytime. The place where travelers may rest; the peaceful harbour where skies and seas have merged to build a house of light… where Mother welcomes tired rovers with her sweet “Good morning”… and sometimes Dad drops by to rock the kids good night. The place that frowning Time won’t dare to crush or crumble… so, when the bleeding wounds of Stars and Planets seem to have sprung a final curse – the humble art of gathering and giving finds its meaning: to save the fleet of Life and sail it into another Universe… …a place where Time himself is young, where kids and parents play together… a shore where walls of grief collapse as waves of hope arrive… where in-and-out or up-and-down mean on-and-on-forever… a sparkling seven-colour space where stories are alive. As long as stories have a home, they won’t get wasted… when colours split, it’s not the end … for anyone can find the charm to twine them, bounce the Story back to start: when having drawn complete a childish maze – to round, embrace and shelter the graceful shape, the magic beat and beautiful emotion we call Heart. The End ? No. Never. People come, people go, people search, people find, people steal, people give, people hide. People gain, people lose, people chose, people try, people learn and forget and then die. History books are filled with graveyards. Each tombstone has a name, a date of birth, a date of death. There are no sounds, no smiles, no tears, no faces in-between. No feet to chase, no hands to hold, no hearts to host a dream. History is about dates and names and tombstones. Music is about kings and queens and dreams. People forget the numbers and forget the names. People remember dreams and fairy-tales. Who cares about those names and numbers – the silent, splintered skulls and bones of Time and Space… but rustling voices in a tale stir up warm waves and you cannot forget a dream’s embrace. They’ve got voices and fingers to fondle and thrill, to touch and to hurt and to heal. It is not what you see and it’s not what you think. It is always about what you feel: “Seven terrible wounds caused the death of the king but he’d managed to kill the three-headed Dark Dragon: a ruthless and harrowing seven-day fight. People say that the heartbroken queen also died but the seven red rivers she cried water seven blue trees that grow three golden leaves every night.” * People searched, people found, people chose, people tried, people learned and forgot. People died. But the kings and the queens that have fought and have cried and have laughed and have loved never die. They just fall into rivers and flow. Then they colour the forests and grow. Then they follow the Music and fly.
0 Comments
Clemencio Montecillo Bascar was a former Professor and Vice President for Corporate Affairs of the Western Mindanao State University. He is a recepient of various local, regional, and national awards in songwriting, playwriting, poetry, and public service. Several of his poems had been published in international literary magazines and journals such as, Foliate Oak , BRICKrhetoric, About Place, Torrid Literature, Mused-theBellaOnline Lietrary Review, and The Voices Project. He had written and published by the Western Mindanao State University two books of poetry, namely; "Fragments of the Eucharist" and "Riots of Convictions." In the Philippines, some of his poems appeared in the such magazines as Women's, MOD, and Chick. At present, he writes a column in the Zamboanga Today daily newspaper and resides at 659 Gemini Street, Tumaga, Zamboanga City, Philippines. He is married to the former Miss Melinda Climaco dela Cruz and blest with three children, Jane, Lynnette, and Timothy James. INSURRECTION OF CONSCIENCE CRIMES committed by reason lie beyond the sphere of dissent; civilization acquires no jurisdiction over the acts of conscience; they reside in the landscape of abstraction; outside the limits of human wisdom and judicial norms FORCE OF ANY gravity and magnitude can't bring down the ramparts of the mind where dreams and fantasies breed and blend; it's pure insanity to impose restrictions on th dynamics of intellectual expression ANY ATTEMPT TO DISRUPT the spontaneity and natural flow of imagination is savagery in the genre of demons Ananya S Guha lives in Shillong in North East India. He is currently Regional Director at the Indira Gandhi National Open University. He has been writing poetry and publishing his poems for over thirty years. The river lapsed Into aeons of time Bird plummeted into sea And orgy of violence As man did dance death The river did not understand That flashes of genius was born The river mourned Birds and animals died There was mayhem Man did the war dance Man did the death dance The river The birds The animals were silent They decided to be slaves To man Ruth Z. Deming, winner of a Leeway Grant for Women Artists, has had her work published in lit mags including Hektoen International, Creative Nonfiction, Haggard and Halloo, and Literary Yard. A psychotherapist and mental health advocate, she runs New Directions Support Group for people with depression, bipolar disorder, and their loved ones. Viewwww.newdirectionssupport.org. She runs a weekly writers' group in the comfy home of one of our talented writers. She lives in Willow Grove, a suburb of Philadelphia. Her blog is www.ruthzdeming.blogspot.com. THE FINAL RESTING PLACE This is the place where I’m supposed to live for the rest of my life? I won’t have it. I’ll think of something. I’ll trick them. How, I do not know. I hate it. I hate it every single day I’ve lived here. The Presbyterian Village. And, no, don’t tell me I’ll get used to it. You have no idea how I feel. You’re a prisoner here. They spy on you. They make sure I take my heart medicine. Knock on my door every morning to make sure I’m alive. If you asked me which I miss more, my old house or my late husband, Izzy, I wouldn’t even have to think. Izzy made a nice living as a podiatrist, but a proper marriage we did not have. His office was attached to our beautiful stone house in Abington. I’d look out the upstairs window and see all the cars parked in the circular drive. I could even hear him chatting up all his patients, laughing with them and telling them it wouldn’t hurt a bit as he sliced their corns off with a drill I could hear upstairs in my art studio. A sign in the waiting room read “Proud Supporter of the American Diabetes Association.” And then I’d hear his footsteps, encased in the comfortable shoes he espoused for his patients, fairly trotting up the stairs, a man of endless energy. I’d always have his lunch waiting for him on the kitchen table. On Fridays, I’d make my special chopped liver, from a recipe of my mother’s, with schmaltz and red wine. I’d watch Izzy swoon over it, looking up at me and smiling. But did he talk to me? Lunchtime and dinnertime this man read newspapers at the table. We led separate lives. My home was an extension of me. He gave me free reign to do as I pleased. The kitchen was a brilliant sparkling white I painted myself. Wore a cap on my head so I wouldn’t spatter my own black curls with white polka-dots. Where did I buy my good China? Aschenbach from Bavaria. White with an edge of blue triangles on the rims. I don’t even remember now, forgetful octogenarian that I am. An announcement comes through the loudspeakers in the hallway at the Presbyterian Home. “Lunch is now being served.” I cover my ears and scream. “I can’t stand it! Stop telling me what to do!” I’m losing weight the food is so bad. What a cook I was back home. Famous for my mouth-watering rib-eye steak and carrot-beet salad, not to mention my caramel flan. When I told that to one of the girls I eat with – girls! – shrunken old women with false teeth, one with a flat chest since her breasts were lopped off from cancer – one of the smelly old ladies said, “For godsakes, Sadie, grow up! You can buy a flan mix nowadays right in the pudding aisle. Why would anyone but you bother to make it yourself?” This is what goes on at our table. We sit over by the window, like prisoners who catch a glimpse of the sky and the trees. They cup their ears when you talk to them or lean forward as if I want to see what they look like up close. Oh, I so hate old people. This flock of old people – with their bent-over-double backs, their canes and walkers, their white listless hair – is as foreign to me as walking out of my apartment into a sea of penguins. My husband got me in here by pure trickery. I’d spent the afternoon in my art studio, which was once the bedroom of our daughter Chrissie. With a number two pencil, I laid out the outlines of a large abstract of a mother and child, then bid it adieu while I went in the kitchen to make supper. Dinner was superb: roast juicy chicken, brown rice and buttered Brussels sprouts. Izzy had gotten up to wash the dishes. “I’ll take my Decaf into the living room, dear,” I said when I was overcome with such a severe headache I thought I’d go blind. “Uh,” I said, trembling, and sitting back down at the table, spilled my coffee all over myself and the floor. “I feel awful, simply awful.” Okay. So I blacked out. Big deal. And ended up in intensive care at Abington hospital right down the street. When I opened my eyes I was told I’d had an aneurysm, bleeding in the brain. Lucky to be alive and all that, they told me. For my rehabilitation, I was taken, by ambulance, to the Presbyterian Village’s Rehab. They loaded me, a helpless baby, into the back of the ambulance. And there I stayed at the Rehab Center, and then on into Brookside Building, while Izzy lived all by himself in our beautiful house I yearned for. One day my Izzy, who, I believe was in his late seventies at the time, was driving on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. He didn’t merge quick enough and was hit by a mean, roaring, smoking tractor-trailer. Dead on arrival. Why attend the funeral? His patients loved him, I did not. I sat in what passes for living rooms in the Home – can you imagine a room as big as your coat closet? – while I looked out the window and fretted and reminisced while eulogies were being delivered at Goldstein’s. Do you believe the Home had the gall to send a rabbi to see me? I opened the door a crack, I don’t let just anyone in here, you know, asked what he wanted, and slammed the door in his face. Standing at the window, which gave onto a courtyard filled with red cutleaf maple trees and an assortment of summer flowers, I remembered when Izzy and I took one of our cruises. Just like the people at the Home, you were stuck with your tablemates, whether you liked them or not. Whether they picked their noses at the table or coughed up mucous into their napkins or had dandruff on their shoulders. While we sailed the Mediterranean, Izzy and I met Jerry and his wife Dora, an unhappily married couple who lived in downtown Philadelphia. Can you guess what happened? Jerry and I became lovers. After the funeral, my daughter Chrissie called to tell me how nice it had been. She and her son Adam had flown in from Florida to bid their father and grandfather goodbye. I was almost hungry when I sat down in the Greenbriar Room for dinner, resting my cane on the back of the chair. They all looked up at me. I shook my head. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said. “Good heavens!” said Bea, in her ill-fitting false teeth and laughingly fake jet-black hair. “The woman loses her husband, and she can’t face the facts. You are really something, Sadie.” “It’s my business,” I said, thumping my fist on the table. The girls looked at each other, the girls I would be spending the rest of my life with: Bea; Dolly, who was no Dolly Parton, believe me; slumped- over Helen, and me, Sadie, slowly losing my marbles day by day. We had already lost Betty, who was on the dementia unit, and Joan, who didn’t answer the door one morning when the aide knocked, and was dead on the cold bathroom floor. Chad came over to serve us that horrid chicken cordon bleu everyone thought was over the moon. And Brussels sprouts that tasted like rotten garbage. After he left, slumped-over Helen rose in her chair to say, “I was buying coffee this morning when I heard one of the colored girls say she was applying for welfare. Said she doesn’t get enough support from the father of her children.” We all shook our heads in disbelief. “I think we should all pitch in and give her a little something,” I said. “Not a good idea,” said Bea. “Then she’ll be expecting us to give her more money. Who knows? She might even come into our rooms.” We agreed to hold onto what pittance our children doled out to us. “Sadie, are you joining us in bingo?” asked slumped-over Helen. “Bingo? A game I played when I was five? Count me out,” I said, rising from my chair and grabbing my cane. I took the elevator up to my room, where I spend most of my time. Don’t tell anyone but I couldn’t remember what floor I live on, so I got on and off a few times until I recognized the aquarium at the end of our hall and then let myself into my room. I do admit I had a good cry. Where was my lover Jerry when I needed him? Izzy could go to hell but Jerry and I had a loving relationship for twenty years. Once a week we’d meet at the Holiday Inn where we signed in as Mr. and Mrs. Jerry Hollander. And one day when I drove over there in my green and white Oldsmobile, and waited in the lobby, he never showed up. From my bed I noticed there was a Bose radio on the nightstand. I wonder how that got there. It sat next to a glass of water in a beautiful crystal glass. I took a sip. Room temperature the way I like it. On the walls were beautiful paintings I had never seen before. I roused myself from the bed to look at the paintings. Flowers, portraits, and smiling children holding balloons. All signed by Sadie Rothman. I laughed. “Now you’re really getting bad,” I thought. “Is someone fooling me into thinking I had made these paintings?” The days continued, endless days like waves upon the ocean. One day, when I entered my room after lunch, my clothes were packed and placed in see-through plastic bags. Was I moving out? Had my dream come true? Hannah, a nurse I was fond of, told me I was moving into Reflections, a unit at the Home that I would absolutely love. No longer would I have meals with the meanies at my table who didn’t know what to do with a woman of artistic sensibilities. And Hannah was so right. No longer do the loudspeakers tell us what to do. I hear classical music all day long on a Bose radio that’s in my room. My friend Natalie brought me a red amaryllis which is blooming away on the windowsill. And the food! Magical. Chicken cordon bleu like you’d get at a five-star restaurant. My daughter Chrissie flew up from Florida to say hello and have me sign some papers. “Sign these, while you still can, Mom,” she said to me. She also told me the Philadelphia Inquirer had called. When people get older, and I certainly do not feel old and have no idea how old I am, they write an obituary. Here’s what mine said. Sadie (nee Silverman) Rothman, beloved wife of the late Isaac, mother of Christine Connor, grandmother of Adam Connor, died peacefully at the Presbyterian Home in Rydal, Pennsylvania. Ms. Rothman was an award-winning painter, whose work is on display at the Michener Museum in Doylestown, Walker Museum in Minneapolis, and in private collections around the world. She was on the board of the Barnes Museum and the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Her weekly column, “You’ve Got to See It!” ran for many years in the Philadelphia Bulletin and then Art Matters. Donations may be made to The Alzheimer’s Association. I didn’t understand a word of it, but Chrissie assured me it was a beautiful tribute to me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I smell the aroma of our lunch wafting into my room. Best guess? Eggplant parm. Ananya S Guha lives in Shillong in North East India. He is currently Regional Director at the Indira Gandhi National Open University. He has been writing poetry and publishing his poems for over thirty years. Mother Mother the days In winter I remember Across pebbled roads And half lit markets Golden oranges springing forth And the fish with beady eyes You would choose and haggle And winter spruced in Shillong Would come to an end slowly Somewhere in my mind With rush of school The market would wither and die As monsoon rains ceaselessly Would take over The town changes with Malls I wonder how you would shop now With an ATM or walk across fliers In cities The chimney you sat in front of Is now museum piece The green pines do not look so green The hills distraught having witnessed change The moaning wind still hovers though rapaciously But those wolves that you spoke Of have disappeared into silence Of certainty The cobbled lanes look stoned The town is a relic The people bizarre And rains bring fiesta of delight With adventurous puddles Fruits ripen slowly Schools have mannequins It is good that you are not here. Neil Slevin is a 27-year-old writer from the West of Ireland. An English teacher, in 2016 he completed an MA in Writing at NUI Galway and he is now pursuing a writing-based career. Neil’s poetry has been published by The Galway Review and Boyne Berries, as well as numerous international journals, including Scarlet Leaf Review and Artificium: The Journal. His flash fiction appeared in The Incubator. He co-edits Dodging The Rain. Breathe (I Remember) How our silence swelled into a bubble I could’ve stayed forever in as the noise of life went on outside, everything lost in your glow, as the sense of what you knew but didn’t realise yet set you ablaze and I basked in the warmth you gave away, joyous just to be and breathe, only a little scared I might do something to disturb all the bits and pieces of universe that had conspired to make 'us'; how if I could choose from all the moments I’ve lived to this, I would pick that to live again, die happily at its end. Savannah Wingo is a writer from Austin, Texas. She graduated from Texas State University in 2015. This is her first publication credit. Inheritance Ingrid’s eyes flickered open. It was dark. Yellow light slanted through the slats of her blinds from outside and the sound of crickets filtered through the window screen. Upstairs, she could hear the familiar noise of her mom and dad arguing. Ingrid settled deeper into her bed, pulling the covers to rest beneath her nose. She held her breath and counted the stomps upstairs. Slowly the yelling became louder, a steady crescendo layered over the beat of her parents’ footsteps. Unlike the layout of most of her friends’ houses, Ingrid’s bedroom was downstairs and her parents’ was upstairs. Before she was born, her parents had knocked out all the walls upstairs to make one big room, their love nest. The stairs, instead of ending on a landing, stopped dead at her parents’ bedroom door. Up until recently, she had assumed all two-story houses were like hers. The stomps upstairs were centered right over her head now. It had been about a year since her father, Herbert, and her mother, Lucy, had begun their nightly brawls, the sounds seeping through the floorboards of their massive upstairs suite to disturb Ingrid’s sleep. Ingrid’s parents were very different people, but had always seemed stable up until about a year ago. Her mother was pale, elegant and fashion-conscious. She spent her time decorating the house, cooking meals, tending her plants and taking care of Ingrid. She carried herself with a kind of careless grace. Her father, on the other hand, was tanned with a muscular frame. His hands were rough and calloused from hours working at the lumber mill he owned. He had an aura of competency about him—it was like no matter what they were doing, he immediately knew the right way. Ingrid sniffled. The sounds stopped for a few seconds until, suddenly, her mother wailed violently. Lucy might as well have been right in Ingrid’s bedroom with how loud she was. Ingrid pulled the covers all the way over her head. A few moments later, she could hear her father grunting and roaring like some kind of animal. Tomorrow, her mother would have new bruises like purple constellations across her arms and legs, and sometimes even on her face. It had happened often enough for Ingrid to establish a cause-and-effect. At dinner, if Herbert sat on the couch instead of at the table and drank his whiskey instead of ate, then later she would hear the both of them yelling in their upstairs bedroom. Sometimes, Ingrid would spot thin red cuts on her mother’s wrists, too, but she was never sure if her father had inflicted those marks or not. The one time she had asked her mother about the cuts, Lucy said they were her own fault. She said it in a way that Ingrid knew not to ask anymore. Another wail rang through the house and Ingrid dug in even deeper into her covers, squeezing her eyes and trying desperately to think about anything about her parents. She imagined the blanket covering her was a tent and she was a giant on display at the circus. She imagined all the people screaming in terror at her, throwing their tiny boxes of popcorn at her feet. At school, they’d been learning about ancient cultures and mythology. She loved learning about the different monsters and creatures people had once believed in. Lately, all of the made-up stories she told herself, all of her dreams and even all of her nightmares featured these mythical beasts. She spent all her time in the library. First she started with mythology books, since that was what she initially loved. Eventually, she got bored and moved on to sci-fi and fantasy. She was obsessed with ghouls, demons, weres and monsters. Now, she read at least a book a week. This week she’d been reading about possession. She’d even sneaked her dad’s old VHS copy of The Exorcist out from the cabinet in the living room and watched the whole thing through one night, volume turned low as her parents yelled upstairs. She’d become convinced Herbert was possessed by a demon. He hadn’t always been like this. Ingrid cocooned herself in her blankets. Before, her dad had been overworked and stressed, but still gentle and kind. When he got home, they’d sit on the little couch handed down from grandma and watch Tales from the Crypt or Twilight Zone. “They don’t make ‘em like that anymore,” He’d say, ruffling Ingrid’s hair. When she hugged him, he always smelled like sawdust and Big Red gum, which he always kept in his truck’s cup holder. When he got home from work, Ingrid would bury her face in his chest, breathe in that smell and know she was safe. If he still smelled like that, Ingrid wouldn’t know— she didn’t hug him anymore. When he came home now, her dad left a trail of cigarette smoke and booze smell in his wake. He didn’t sit on the couch and watch old TV shows. He lorded over the couch, filling as much space as he could by spreading his legs out wide. He sipped whiskey out of highball glasses and watched shows about war, hunting, or fishing. Sometimes he’d just watch the weather channel for hours on end, eyes unfocused and empty, hand still unconsciously ferrying glass after glass of Jameson Whiskey to his lips. Before bedtime, she and her dad used to play hide and seek. She’d hide and wouldn’t have to go to sleep until he found her. She liked to pick dumb hiding spots, like behind curtains with her feet sticking out or under a blanket on the floor. No matter how silly her hiding spot, Herbert would pretend he couldn’t find her. “Now where in the world could that girl be?” He’d address the room, eyes somehow managing to avoid the laundry basket Ingrid was crouching in. When he finally did find her, he’d always pick her up, swing her around, and blow a raspberry into her stomach. She’d laugh, he’d give her a kiss on the forehead, and then she’d go to sleep, no noises in the night around to wake her. Now Ingrid could hear her mother sobbing from upstairs. Her father was yelling, and it sounded as if he might be throwing things. Ingrid squeezed her eyes tight. She dug her fingers into her belly. Once she came to the conclusion that her father was a monster, her next thought was that she might be one too. Ingrid imagined herself as an adult, terrorizing her husband and child the same way. What if one day she sat on the couch, legs splayed, drinking scotch over ice, eyes vacant and cold? What if one day her daughter would lie in bed, listening to her roars? She imagined herself grey-skinned and foul-mouthed like the girl from the exorcist, a loud snarl ripping through her chest. Or if it turned out she wasn’t a monster after all—what if she ended up stuck with one? What if one day she wore long sleeves to cover her bruises? Ever since she had decided her father was some a monster and that she might be one too, she had the almost uncontrollable urge to peek in and at least see what he looked like during his rampages. Suddenly, there was a loud shattering noise upstairs, then a heavy thump. She ripped the covers off and sat up. The sudden silence caused a leaden ball to form in the pit of her stomach. She swung her legs over the side of her bed, stood and crossed the dark bedroom. She slowly pushed her door open. The little notches in the doorframe where Herbert had once marked her height slowly revealed themselves as the door squeaked on its hinges. The noise made the hackles on her neck stand on end, but didn’t stop her from peering out of the doorframe. Everything looked fine. The staircase leading to her parents’ room was just down the hall, and everything downstairs was quiet and still. She left her bedroom door open as she ventured out. Everything looked slightly sinister. The fronds of the potted plants her mother loved so much morphed into strange appendages in the dark and the floral-printed couch her father and her used to sit on together looked stained with dark blooms of blood. Ingrid hurried past the living room and towards the stairs. She put her hand on the cold banister. She thought she could make out some low noise coming from her parents’ room. Ingrid steeled her will, it was too late to turn back. She began to climb the stairs. They were steep, ascending straight up and ending at the door to her parent’s bedroom. Ingrid slowly climbed to the top of the stairs and hesitated outside the imposing black door. Now that she was right by the door, she heard a muffled sobbing. Palms sweating, she grabbed the door knob and slowly turned, pushing the door open just wide enough so that she could see into the room. The room was unbearably bright after the darkness of the rest of the house, and the fluorescent lighting beamed off of the white tile flooring. In the center of the room, just underneath the ceiling fan spinning like a dervish, was her father. He was bent over something, his dark hair hanging limply in his face. His back was heaving as little hiccupping sobs escaped from his mouth. He didn’t look like a monster, but she couldn’t see his face. Around him, the room looked as if a tornado had passed through, with her father crouching right in the eye of the storm. When she had entered the room before, it had been neat and stately looking. Her mother had a vanity in one corner always draped with shawls and hats and long ropes of pearls. Ingrid had sometimes sat in front of that vanity with her mother, watching Lucy methodically apply red matte lipstick and spritzes of perfume from jeweled bottles. She would perfume on Ingrid too, dabbing little droppers of fragrant yellow oil into the crooks of her elbows, her wrists and her neck. Now, the mirror in the antique vanity was smashed, and glass littered the floor in a million shards. The white tile of the floor was totally exposed, the gorgeous Persian rug she remembered so vividly flipped over on itself, rough underbelly facing upwards. The lush ficus plants that had framed the entryway were upended, and loamy soil speckled the pristine tile. The heavy velvet curtains, usually left open, were now drawn, blocking out the lights from the street. Throw cushions and covers were tossed helter-skelter across the room, torn from their place on the bed. She took this in within seconds. It was as if she was protecting herself from looking at her father, already knowing on some level what she’d find there. Unable to distract herself with the periphery of the room any longer, Ingrid finally followed her father’s gaze downward. Shards of glass crowded the floor and tangled themselves in the light strands of hair that pooled around and over her father’s lap. He was cradling Lucy’s head, sobbing. Ingrid’s gaze followed the thin curve of her mother’s neck until, finally, it came to rest at a dagger-shaped piece of glass embedded deep into the depression where her collarbones met. There wasn’t as much blood as she imagined there would be. It was nothing like those old TV shows, fake too-red blood and gore coating the entire scene. A few scattered red-black drops were the only evidence to Lucy’s wound. Her father twitched a little, as if startled out of deep contemplation. Slowly, he lifted his head and leveled a gaze at Ingrid. She took a step backwards, terrified at the unfamiliar expression in Herbert’s eyes. “Ingrid?” He called. “It’s past your bedtime, sweetie.” He almost sounded like his old self again. Lucy hesitated, unsure of what to do. He didn’t look like a monster. But her mother’s still body said otherwise. Ingrid wondered if maybe she had done it to herself, like the thin red cuts across her wrist. Ingrid looked through the door crack at her father. His face was placid and empty. It was the same face he made sitting on the couch for hours on end, watching the weather. She could almost see the blank grey light from the television flickering in his eyes. In one fluid motion, Herbert bent down over Lucy and put his hand on the glass shard embedded in her throat. Blood immediately bloomed out of his palm, running down his wrist and into the bends of his arms. Slowly, he withdrew the shard, the stream from his palm mingling with Lucy’s already thickening blood. The same spot that Lucy had once delicately dabbed amber perfume on was now pooled with gore. Herbert straightened, glass dagger grasped firmly in his dripping hand. “Alright, honey, why don’t you go hide? I’ll give you a head start.” Ingrid could see the monster now. Herbert wasn’t a werewolf or vampire or demon, but if she lived through this, she might become a monster too. She ran down the stairs. Author is a retired attorney having practiced for 35 years in Illinois who now lives in Texas and started writing stories about a year and a half ago. Flippilocks and the Lost Election There once was a young girl named Flippilocks. She was named that because her golden curly hair flipped up at the ends and bounced happily up and down as she went about her studies at one of the best self-proclaimed liberal arts schools in the country. Besides she flipped out easily and often and the name kind of fit. And it came to pass that an election was held in the fall of her senior year and that her candidate lost. She could not deal with that and true to form she wigged or flipped out as they say. This was because the results were not to her liking, not the results she had been promised by the media and the pollsters. She had been given counseling by the university, at taxpayers expense of course, to readjust her to the realities of the world. But alas nothing worked and she became so frustrated and discombobulated that she could not concentrate on her studies and would not graduate next spring because she failed some of her courses. So she thought, what does one do when things aren’t to one’s liking in this country. Why one sues someone of course. So she hired Attorney Oyster Shyster a man with pearly white teeth, though that was not the reason she hired him. She hired him because he would take her case on a contingency fee basis, one third of whatever she got. She had no cash for an attorney because her student loans had bankrupted her for the rest of her life and a contingency fee was the only way she could hire an attorney. But she wasn’t wanting money, though Shyster was, really she was filing suit because it was the principle of the thing and nobody sues unless it’s for the principle of the thing. Right? That principle here was that one of her constitutional rights had been violated, the right to the pursuit of happiness. No way could she ever be happy with the person elected as President for he was not her president. The system had done her wrong. Oyster Shyster, ever the attorney, decided to sue the one with the deep pockets here, the Federal Government of course. And not it was not just the The Federal Government and its system of electing a president that had done her wrong, others were to blame too. So he sued both political parties, one of them had to be to blame but he didn’t know which one, so he sued them both, and all the pollsters for having lied to her. They had all ruined her perfect life. Attorney Miles Mole represented all the defendants. They only needed one attorney because basically they were all just one big entity anyway and were in cahoots together as usual. He was a shrew of a shrewd little man with a scrunched up face, squinty eyes, and two sharp buck teeth. He had spent a lifetime tunneling in and out and through the legal system and he knew all of its intricacies thereof and therefore he knew he was doomed to lose this case. This was because the case was brought before the U.S. Supreme Court, a court of supreme, or should it be said extreme, principals and or principles. The case had been fast tracked to the Supreme Court at their request for they deemed it of national importance and urgency. And so the trial commenced. “Mr. Shyster,” began Chief Justice Rue Unhingedburg, “you are asking the court to void the election and award a trillion dollars in damages to your client. Is that correct?” “Yes Your Supremeness,” Oyster Shyster answered knowing that if he got a trillion dollars damages, his fee being one third thereof, he couldn’t do the math in his head, but he thought it had to be in the millions, that therefore he’d probably have enough money to retire on. “A trillion dollars?” asked the black guy on the court. “Yes Your Supremester. You’ve read the report of our psychiatrist Dr. Seigheil Freund which says that my poor client will never be cured. She will need constant psychiatric attention. Even if she has a good election and is healed, any bad election will cause her to go into a relapse arrest. It’s kind of like having shingles you know Your Honor. You’re never cured. My client will have a lifetime of medical bills and a trillion dollars would help some in paying those bills.” Oyster Shyster paused for effect and pointed to his client. This was Flippilock’s cue. She put on her sweet sad forlorn pouting cute little face and looked soulfully and sorrowfully as she batted her big blue eyes at each justice one at a time. “There see her. See how she suffers,” proclaimed Oyster. “Objection,” spoke up Mr. Mole. “This child is covered under her parents insurance until she is twenty six thanks to the Amazing Health Care Act. She personally incurs no medical expenses at this time. Her folks do.” “Good point,” said the black guy. “But not good enough,” retorted Justice Unhingedburg. “There’s no point in coming back to this court for damages at a later time when we can do it now. Judicial efficiency is important,” she said not knowing she had just created a new oxymoron. “Knowing that there’s unlimited money for her in the future will help put her mind at ease now, today. Objection overruled.” “Thank you Most Exalted One,” said Shyster as dollar signs flashed through caverns of his mind. “Your Honor at this time the Plaintiff calls the Plaintiff Miss Flippilocks to the stand.” “Objection this is highly unusual Ms Justice,” interjected Mr. Mole. “Well this election was highly unusual too wasn’t it Mr. Mole? Objection overruled. Proceed Mr. Shyster.” Fliipilocks pranced up to the stand, her golden locks bouncing as she went. She curtsied to Justice Unhingedburg, took the oath, but promised to affirm as to the truth and not to swear to it, for a proper young lady does not swear, sat down and fluffed out her red, white, and blue colored fancy laced dress, her attorney picked it out for her to wear today, and smiled her dimples at the court. “Now tell us how this election ruined your life young lady,” asked Attorney Shyster. “Well,” she said, and here she paused, her brow furrowed. The windmills of her mind were not winding or milling as she tried to think of an answer. Finally the best she could come up with was, “Well it’s just not fair that’s all.” Oyster Shyster knew he wasn’t dealing with the most honed knife in the drawer and she might not cut the mustard as a witness, so he took charge. “And it’s not fair because the media and pollsters promised you that your candidate would win didn’t they?” “Yes.” And it’s not fair because the president elect hates women, will hold women back from realizing their full potential and thus you or all other women everywhere will never ever be able to crash into the glass ceiling will you?” “Yes.” “And it’s not fair because he will make you pay for your own birth control pills and you’re afraid as a result thereof of you will get pregnant and have to spend a lifetime raising a bunch of children you didn’t want, aren’t you?” “Yes.” “And you’re worried that he will step up the war against women and take away the right of women to vote and to drive cars aren’t you?” “Yes.” Justice Unhingedburg got caught up in the excitement of this line of questioning and jumped right in, “And you’re worried about the rights of millions of Americans to receive welfare, and of the deporting of millions of lawful poor Mexicans and their families, and of moving the Berlin Wall to the Mexican border, and of spending billions of dollars on the military rather than helping the downtrodden citizens of this country who are victims of an unfair system of discrimination aren’t you?” “Your Madameness I don’t know what all that means. I just know that I want my life to be like it was before all this happened, when everything was just right.” She lowered her head, took out her white embroidered dantie hankie from her made in America pocket book and wiped away forced tears from her rosy red cheeks. “I don’t believe that’s asking for too much Your Honor,” piped up Oyster Shyster. “Politicians promise to make it right for us all the time.” “Point well taken Mr. Shyster,” applauded Justice Unhingedburg. “Your witness Mr. Mole.” Mr. Mole scrunched up his little face and waited until Flippilocks was through wiping away her fake tears. “Ms Flippi, excuse me Ms. Flippilocks, “You’ve never had a job have you?” “No I haven’t.” “And your folks have taken care of their little girl, meaning you, all your life haven’t they?” “Well yes.” “So if they created you, and they cared for you, then they, not the government are responsible for taking care of you now aren’t they?” “Good point,” said the black guy. “No it’s not,” barked Justice Unhingdburg, “Everyone knows It takes a government. That’s an old African proverb. You of all people black guy should know that.” Miles Mole knew he was doomed. Oyster Shyster had gotten out his calculator and was starting to figure up how many millions a third of a trillion was. Fliipilocks sat there waiting for the next question from Attorney Shyster but he was so absorbed calculating his fee that he forgot all about her. She wasn’t use to being ignored. She was used to being the center of attention and after a while she couldn’t hold it in anymore and she imploded, “I just want to be happy. Is there anything wrong with that Your Godliness?” And she started to weep. “Nothing is wrong with that dear,” responded Justice Unhingedburg. “You have the constitutional right in this country to the pursuit of happiness and it’s this court’s responsibility and duty to see that this right is not denied you. An election cannot trump your right to happiness.” Justice Unhingedburg went over and put her arm around the now sobbing young woman. So the court ruled that day that the election would be set aside because it was too upsetting to poor Flippilocks and had prevented her from her exercising her right to the pursuit of happiness. And it further ruled that a new election was to be held and what the results therefrom were to be, based on the previous popular vote of course. As to damages, well the court dared not increase the national debt by another trillion dollars because that would not be the politically prudent thing to do. So that they denied. Mr. Shyster couldn’t retire, not quite yet anyway. And as to Mr.Mole he went back to the darkness of his office and buried himself in his files and law books for the brilliance of the court’s ruling not only hurt his eyes but his head too. And as to Flippilocks well she didn’t understand what had happened here but she read on the internet somewhere that she had won and that made her happy again. Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He has worked as an editor for The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. His fiction and poetry have appeared in various publications, including The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Christian Science Monitor, Commonweal, Guwahatian Magazine (India), The Galway Review (Ireland), Public Republic (Bulgaria), The Osprey Review (Wales), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey) and other magazines. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html#sthash.OSYzpgmQ.dpbs New Year's Resolutions Jim Daley and Joe McCarthy had something in common. They died at 80 going to the bathroom in the middle of the night. Walt O'Brien, their protege, found this out when he called the homes of both men on New Year's Day, an annual custom for Walt, something he started doing years ago just to find out how his old mentors were doing. Jim's widow spoke to Walt on the phone and told him Jim had died from a stroke on Halloween. They had found his body in the morning, half in the bathroom and half in the hallway, cold as a mackerel fresh out of the sea. Jim's widow said she was a sound sleeper. Walt thought she should have heard his body fall since Jim was a big man, all belly and buttocks, as Jim himself would put it. Joe's widow said her Joe had tripped on the bathroom rug on All Soul's Day, banged his head on the commode and died in intensive care a week later, never emerging from his coma. She was happy the priest got there in time to administer the last rites before Joe stopped breathing. His last breath, she said, was a gurgle. Jim and Joe had been more like uncles to Walt than mentors. They came into his life when Walt was in grammar school. It was just after his dad had been killed in Korea and Walt needed all the support he could get. Over the next 50 years Walt had stayed in touch with both men, calling them on New Year's Day from different cities. Their advice over the years helped Walt survive three job losses, a foreclosure, two car wrecks and four divorces. Sometimes their advice dealt with the big issues of life. But sometimes they commented on smaller phenomena as well. Last year, for example, Jim had warned Walt that growing old meant not being able to put your underwear on standing up. "I have to sit on the bed now," Jim had said, sounding almost depressed for a man known for his jocularity. Right after Jim told him about the underwear problem, Walt called Joe and asked if Jim was right. Joe too confirmed he now had to sit on the bed to get his underwear on. He told Walt every man has to sit down at some point in life, provided he lives long enough. "Age has its requirements," Joe said. "There's a happy medium, I suppose. If I had died a few years ago, I wouldn't be having this problem right now." At 60, Walt could still put his underwear on standing up but it was getting more difficult. He had to hop on one leg, pogo-stick style, to get the job done. But sitting down was not an option. Walt was a proud man who had overcome bigger problems in life and he'd keep hopping for as long as he could. One time, however, he almost fell but landed in a chair. His fourth wife Belinda still laughs about it even though they're no longer married. She even called two of his ex-wives and told them about it. They couldn't stop laughing. Walt knows that one day he will have to sit down to put his underwear on unless he dies before that. He figures he has at least a few good years left. But after hearing that Jim and Joe had died trying to get to the bathroom in the middle of the night, Walt decided to take certain steps to avoid a similar mishap in his own life. First, he installed night lights along the baseboards going from the bedroom to the bathroom. At midnight the hallway now shines like a small expressway with no traffic at all. Then Walt made some New Year's resolutions, a step he had never taken before. As a result he now eats salads and fruit plates instead of double cheeseburgers and lots of ice cream. What's more he reads the Bible now and then in the morning. He's even quit drinking beer late into the night. The new Walt now sits back in his leather recliner, sips wine coolers out of old jelly jars and listens, over and over, to his favorite recording of an old Irish reel called "Toss the Feathers." It’s played beautifully, he says, by the McNulty Family, most of whose members, he figures, are by now dead. When he was a boy, Jim and Joe had introduced Walt to traditional Irish music and even taught him a few steps of the reel, jig and hornpipe. Once in awhile, when he's had enough wine, Walt tries to do a few of those steps and he succeeds to his own satisfaction. And, of course, he still puts his underwear on standing up, one hop at a time. |
ArchivesCategories
All
|