Higher, Higher

She is born of bread and bone
of earth and breath—
the barefoot child,
who knows the twists in the river
like the lines in her palm.
They promise that she will never leave
the grass,
the sweet hills—
even as the smoke-man
crawls up the road.
His great long-legged form
looking for the secret of flight
and a moment of peace.

His body is oily and dark.

Afterwards,
He will sit in her remnants,
face wet,
wondering why he can’t sever
his ties to the mud.
Let us hope
that he learns how to clip
his multitude of legs
and raise—with a pint of his blood—
the barefoot child
out of the river.
She cannot fly
but she knows
how to climb trees.

Not What I Asked For

He almost missed her in this crowd, but she stands out in her halter top and mini-skirt, shaking her drink at the bartender and shouting. He eases through a pack of suits and slides next to her.

“Dammit, I told you I wanted a Long Island!”

“Miss, you asked for a Sex on the Beach.”

“I didn’t, and I’m not paying for it!”

Entering their conversation with a flash of his wallet, he smiles. “Let me take care of your drinks. A lady should get what she wants.”

“Finally, a decent guy.” She tosses her hair. “I’m Kalie.”

Taking her replacement drink from the bartender, he drops the pill in. A swirl dissolves it and he hands the glass over. “Nice to meet you, Kalie.”

Mountaintop

I was not made to walk among the valleys,
I was not made to keep my nose against the ground.
Here I stand in the middle of the wind and the sky,
the sun beating fresh against my neck,
and here is where I belong.

I am formed of dirt and dust and weakness,
and I was born along the tide-washed shore.
I am equal parts bitterness and anger,
shallow thoughts and easy deeds.

But I am more than who I am or what I do,
and I have wonder steeping in my blood.
My feet can climb above where I am planted,
to laugh within the clouds, the peaks, the trees
and feel my soul expand to the heights.

The Sounds of Silent Melodies

Take the strings from your guitar
place your fingers on the fret
strum hard like it means something
play the songs you won’t forget.

Stopper up your saxophone
steal the clapper from your bell
sing the things you cannot sing,
tell the tales you’ll never tell.

Place your sticks above your drum
beat a rhythm on the air
dance while motionless in space—
you are home and never there.




I am not super fond of the last two lines, nor the first two of the second stanza, but I'm putting this up anyways because it's an exciting and rare beast--something that has been unfinished for some time, which I managed to pick up and complete.

Shortchanged

Margaret waited. She had intended to knit, but the yarn was entangled with her reading glasses, a bag of cough drops, and the gun, and it would be too much trouble to untangle it.

“Ma’am, what did you say you were here for, again?” The receptionist blew a bubble, punctuating her question.

Margaret smiled politely. “To see Mr. Sharp. His book promised to change my life, but nothing’s happened.”

The receptionist smacked her gum loudly. “Ooh, I’m sorry, but Mr. Sharp’s left for today.”

Sighing, Margaret got up. “That’s alright. I’ll come back tomorrow and get my money’s worth then.”

Already Too Late

10

The illumination from the investigator’s flashlight caused shadows in her curls, valleys in her shoulder blades. “It’s a shame. Pretty girl.”

The coroner nodded. “Grab my high-powered lamps from the van and switch them on, would you? I’m not going to bag her up in the dark.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t forget to scrape the fingernails, okay?”

“Right.”

9

Wiping vomit from his mouth, the rookie cop shook in the clammy air. His partner patted him on the back and handed him a bottle of water. “It’s okay, kid. You chill out in the car, and I’ll radio it in.”

He shook his head as he spoke into the walkie-talkie.

8

Joe, King of the Streets, sulked as he waited for the cops to come. She was in his spot.

7

He tucked her into the niche under the bridge. With any luck, they wouldn’t find her for weeks.

6

With the detachable hose, he misted her whole body, cleaning off every trace of blood from her delicate form. Then, taking a soft towel, he patted her down. He briefly considered cutting her toenails, but remembered that he didn’t want any part of her left in his house. What if he missed one while cleaning up?

Instead, he contented himself with a luxuriant half-hour spent brushing her hair, then another hour picking out new clothes for her and easing them on. Pulling the shirt over her shoulders excited him again, but he controlled his urges.

5

Smiling, he looked into her eyes. She scrabbled at his hands, frantic, but he was too powerful for her. He loved the way their bodies arched and jumped when he strangled them. His tongue felt thick with pleasure.

4.

She walked with him to his front door, only swaying a little bit. “Thank you so much for letting me come in to clear my head,” she said. “I could use a cup of coffee to chase the last of the alcohol out of my system. Then I’ll get a ride back to my car and be out of your way.” She touched his shoulder and smiled. “I had a great time.”

3.

“Ooh, I think I’ve had one too many,” she grinned, signaling for a glass of water. “Oh well, it is Friday, and I think I’m owed a fun night, don’t you?”

Sipping his martini, he agreed. “Care to dance?”

2.

Watching her tank top slip off her shoulder, allowing her curls to caress her soft skin, he made up his mind. He pushed away from his swivel chair and walked to her cubicle. “Hey. Would you, uh, maybe go out for drinks with me tonight?”

Taking off her headset, she smiled up at him. “I’d love to. Right after our shift?”

“Sounds good to me. I’ll drive.”

1.

“Jenny, put down the phone for a minute and meet the newest member of our team.” The man, who fancied himself more beloved by his employees than he actually was, stepped away from between them. “This is James Stanhope.”

She reached her hand out to shake. “Ready to be a telemarketer, the only people hated more than Hitler?” she asked, laughing.

“Come now, Jenny, it’s not as bad as all that.”

James stared, that familiar electric feeling rising in his brain. She had red hair. Curls. He was already lost.

Fragments

He says that if I ever come back around he’s gonna call the cops, but it doesn’t matter because I have everything I need—scraps of hair, pinch of dirt from his footprint, chewed-off bits of fingernail, a drop of blood.

Now to choose—do I knead them into a wax doll or dissolve them into love potion? Decisions, decisions.

Medical History

Dr. Eiswerkzeug walked his new intern down the hall to his office. “As you can see,” he said, pointing to the glass-fronted cabinets that lined it, “I am a collector of medical curiosities.”

The intern stared at the leech jars and humor charts. “Did they really use all this stuff?”

Dr. Eiswerkzeug chuckled. “My, yes. Thankfully, medicine has advanced a great deal since then.”

They arrived at his office, and the doctor opened the door, exposing the shaking man waiting for them. “Mr. Gehirnmühe! Ready for your lobotomy?” He turned to the intern. “I keep the ice-pick in the closet.”

Monday's Entry

MONDAY:

There were such a lot of people in the front yard that I had to make Michael go for more donuts. Of course he complained for nearly twenty minutes until I promised him a new videogame, and then he hopped on his bike and pedaled off. My brother really does have to be bribed to do everything, but in this case I don’t blame him, because the whole garden was just packed with reporters, and they were awfully pushy. I had to laugh when he nearly knocked over one. She planted herself right in his path and shouted questions, but Michael can only focus on one thing at a time and didn’t even see her. The only bad part was that she jumped out of his way and landed in the tulips. Mum’s, of course, and she’d been working on those for months. Oh well. As it was, the whole garden was a shocking mess and she was going to have a fit when she got home.

I tried to do the washing, but I was bombarded with twenty questions for every clothespin I stuck up, and finally I got very cross and told them to bugger off.
One of the posh-er blokes got in my face at that. “Miss Smith, what do you have to say about the events which have transpired here today?”

Well, he had such a nasty sneaky tone in his voice that I stuck my tongue out at him and told *him* to bugger off, and then I banged back inside. Having to hang the clothes all over the stairs did not improve my mood and I said some really awful things at the top of my lungs, which I regret now because I suppose somebody’d recorded it and later it’ll be on YouTube and won’t I be in a scrape then? Only the other day mum was complaining about people who use vulgar language, and made me promise not to ever use it.

Though I really do feel that I deserved a bit of a shout. It was turning out to be such a trying day.

I made a really savage cup of tea to let off some steam and cheer myself up, and then I went to the kitchen cupboard and poked my head in. It smelled awful, like cheese and sewage, but I tried not to show how horrid it was.

The aliens were huddled in the far corner, looking wretched. I felt sorry for them, really I did, because they were such pale, miserable-looking things, and I could tell they were cold, ‘cause they kept shivering. I asked them if they needed anything that I could give them, and they very politely said no thank you. They didn’t talk, not properly anyway, but it was like I just knew what they said. I could tell they felt rather sick, and I offered to get them some tea, but they weren’t interested.

Your planet is very . . . dry. And . . . pretty, the one said. I could tell he—it? I dunno—was trying to be nice, but it was obvious that he thought it was awful. Which didn’t bother me, because at the moment I really realized how much they looked like frogs, and I thought that they must be used to more humidity.

As soon as I thought that, I had a brilliant idea and ran upstairs. You see, the upstairs bathroom is lovely in the winter, because it steams up like everything, but awful in the summer. It gets so hot and wet that you feel like you haven’t gotten clean at all, and so we all avoid it. But I figured that they might appreciate it, so I hurried up and turned on all the taps to hot—a waste of the heat, and I knew that there’d be another row about that, but they looked so unhappy downstairs that I couldn’t help it. The air got real thick real fast, so I hurried back to the poor creatures in the cupboard and made them come with me. They were real reluctant, but I could tell they were so confused that they’d follow anybody who was bossy enough.

And as soon as they went into the bathroom I could tell that I was right, because they sighed really very hard with happiness and settled into the tub itself. There were clouds of steam coming off it, and I thought it must be scalding, but they were very glad to have it. The smaller one said thank you very politely, but it sounded more real than anything else they’d said. I told them “welcome” and then scarpered because it was bloody awful in there. Like jumping inside a dryer with all the clothes in it still sopping wet.

The doorbell rang, and I raced for it because I remembered that Michael had forgotten his key, as usual. He had his face squished against the door, his eyes all desperate because there were three reporters stuck right up with him, jabbering away like anything. I let him in and made ugly faces at the cheeky blokes and told them to piss off. Michael threw two boxes of donuts behind him and made it inside with the third one.

“I’m not going out there again!” he grumbled, stuffing a chocolate donut in his face. “Not even for two videogames, and I mean it. They chased me halfway up the road.”

“Well, you’ll have to go out eventually, ‘cause mum made me promise to take Mrs. Carper her groceries,” said I.

He shoved another one, cream this time, into his mouth and didn’t even bother to chew. “That’s you, not me,” he said. “It’s your own fault for promising. You can take my bike, but I’m not going out there again.”

Well, I couldn’t believe him! Sending his defenseless sister out there in the crowd like that, but he wouldn’t budge, and I really think I won’t buy him that videogame after all. Serves him right.

Although Mrs. Carper really is ancient and sweet, so I did feel a bit guilty about complaining, because she lives an awfully long way from the shops, and can’t really move much from her chair. So I put on my noble face and said I’d go. But I made sure to eat three donuts first to keep up my strength for the ride.

Michael’s bike is awful rickety, but it’s quick, which I needed to get out of there, I’m telling you. One of them actually grabbed my arm and didn’t let go until I started shouting that he was touching me inappropriately, and then he let go pretty fast, that’s for sure. Some of the other reporters started laughing and I took my chance to speed out of there.

And of course it had to be Steven at the shop, and of course I was all out of breath and red-faced and looked truly awful. He acted like he didn’t notice, but I know he had to of. I had to pedal really fast to get there, ‘cause it’s at the top of this hill, and so I was sweating like an utter pig.

Or worse, he didn’t notice because I’m not worth noticing! Bloody hell.

At least Mrs. Carper was grateful to get her food. She called me a “lovely girl” and gave me two pounds, which was nice. I think I’ll buy some new make-up, no matter what mum says. She always goes on about animal testing and whatever but if I don’t do something, I shall have to go alone to the Christmas Dance, and then I shall truly feel like an utter loser.

The garden was still full of reporters when I got back, but I just pedaled right at ‘em until they got out of my way then jumped in the door. The whole house felt like a swamp and Michael started shouting at me as soon as I walked into the kitchen.

“They have got to go, Fee, I can’t stand it! My mates called to see if I wanted to go out, only I couldn’t because of those idiots from the paper, and because those things upstairs have got the hot water running from all the taps. I don’t know how come they haven’t run out yet, but I’m dying in here.” He was lying on the floor, eating an ice pop, but he was still sweating like anything. “Why’d they land here, anyway? They could have landed in a park or something. More room, yeah?”

I grabbed an ice pop too and sat next to him. “I dunno. I think they said they got lost or something. And come on, Michael, they’re scared and miserable. Can’t you give them a little bit of a break?” We only had grape left, but it was better than nothing. “I mean, they’re aliens! From another planet! Aren’t you just a bit excited?”

He shrugged, the little twit. “They look like frogs. Not very exciting.”

I tried to look offended, but had to admit he was right. Even I’d noticed. “Just shut up and be nice, yeah? I’m gonna go check on them.”

I tell you, it took every bit of my willpower to go upstairs again—it was truly awful, like three jungles stuffed into one house. When I looked in the bathroom, would you believe it? They’d left already, didn’t say goodbye or nothing! They wrote “thanks” and some numbers in the steam on the mirror. Well, that’s not really what was there—it was some weird scribbling alphabet—but somehow I knew what it meant in English, which was really weird. I turned off the taps—thank the Lord—and opened the window to try to get some fresh air.

Michael was a bit heated over it when I told him, and even though we shouted out the door, the reporters stuck around, so that was a real pisser, but they have to go eventually, right? Especially since the aliens left and took their spacecraft-thing off the roof.

Oh, crumbs, I’ve just peeked out the window, and the garden is practically trampled. Mum is going to have kittens when she gets home.

But, yeah. So tomorrow I’m gonna go up to the chemist’s and get some lippy and stuff for my nails and head up to the shop again, see if Steven’s working. I mean, I know that Melissa said that he likes Camilla, but I think that Melissa’s just upset because she broke up with Davy again. Camilla’s a total slag, and Steven would never go for her. He’s way too great for her.

Silverblade

I have a story published on another site,

silverblade.net

which I help to run. Check it out!

Star Traveler

White flashes behind your eyes,
two more windows
into nowhere—
I used to travel by spaceship
instead of by will.
Did you ever seize starlight
in your calloused hand
and pull yourself into the sky?
I wear goggles against the vacuum,
a cross against the ghosts
that float with bared fangs.

US! Russia! China!
Sardines wrapped in tin
and calling it gold—
my feet slipped over Saturn’s ice
in my beat-up tennis shoes,
my T-shirt still smells
like the iron of Mars.
There is a way to breathe
solar flares and dust—
I’ll show you how.

Hopping across the sun,
knees splayed to absorb the landing—
my footprints stand across time.
The lack of gravity
can vibrate a heart
at the rhythm of Jupiter’s storms.
I know what cold is,
and I’ve sweated until my blood ran dry;
my bones sipped calcium
from prodigal Pluto.

Come with me.
Strap on your backpack
with a bottle of water
and some bungee cords—
we’ll elbow our way
out of the atmosphere
on the wings of an eclipse.
No need to be afraid
of yourself staring back from the void—
your scars are answer enough.

Genetically Predisposed to Glory

Diamonds used to be coal—
look it up—
there were plants curved over dinosaurs
before anyone dreamed of gold.
Fish are ferns singing of amoebas
who remember heat
and the cracking of the earth,
when oxygen burned instead of breathed.

And deep inside you,
where even the alligator and the shark have sunk
into the mists of a boiling sea,
there are atoms who jumped
from an explosion of light and sound.
The phosphate and carbon that saw the stars
inhabit your DNA
and dance in your brain;
your skin drinks the sun, and is it.

You are a galaxy that lives and breathes and yearns.
There is a universe swimming in your genes.