Wond’ring Aloud

Well, it has been a while, hasn’t it? Also, yes, I am aware that I am blatantly plagiarizing my title, but it is also fitting as this is just going to be a mildly rambling think piece. For those that may need a clue here, the title is also a song off of Jethro Tull’s iconic “Aqualung” album, which if you are not familiar with, I highly suggest you give a listen to. Anyway, where was I? Oh, right, I am writing, which I haven’t done in a while. According to the last post on here, it has been several years, although there has been output I haven’t posted here, much to my chagrin and the disappointment of the two faithful followers of this blog. When I first started this page, it was basically to showcase my writing, mostly because I am pretty sure this is the only place I will ever be published. That is neither here nor there though, at least not for this piece. This is more a getting the rust off the gears kind of thing, I suppose. It is also kind of personal, which is another reason I started this blog back in the day, a way to get things out of my head and into some concrete shape. I have always found that makes things easier for me to deal with, in my head it is always absolute chaos, with disjointed thoughts and ideas and concepts all vying for attention or recognition, or just acknowledgement to the point where I feel I am barely coherent. I mean, my writing is only somewhat more coherent, but it is a step in the right direction.

Now, what, you might be wondering to yourself, perhaps aloud, brought upon the urge to create today, of all days. Well, it is a quiet day, sort of gloomy grey outside, a day for ponderances and contemplation, particularly in the early hours of the morning. Also, I have been in and out of the hospital for the last month, and that gives one time to think about things. Especially things like mortality, which was on my mind as I was very ironically enjoying a cigarette. There is oodles of hypocrisy there, but one thing at a time. I found out earlier this month that there was a “growth” or “mass” in my bowel, specifically the bendy bit right as the bowel descends into the colon. Eww, gross, and yes, it is, but it is also entirely factual. The mass was 8 centimeters by 5 centimeters, or for old fashionedy types, roughly 4 inches by 2 and a half inches. Kind of big for something growing inside of such a confined space. Also, this was something that in all likelihood was incubating for some time. The more I think about it, the more I am firmly convinced that this was gestating while I was still in the States, where I have lived for twenty years. That is a whole other story, but for right now, I will say I was born in Canada and lived the first twenty years of my life there, then for reasons tried living in the US, and have subsequently moved back to Canada, after a brief sojourn in Lebanon, which again is a whole other story and wasn’t so sojourn-ish but let’s not split hairs. I have digressed upon my initial digression and that is far too much and I have to veer back onto the story, so hard right turn and new paragraph.

The bottom line to all of this is that, as I was perambulating, smoking, and ruminating, I came to the very real conclusion that, if I had remained in the US, I would be dead right now. Or, at least in significantly worse condition than I am now. I felt bad, I went to the hospital, they found things wrong, and I got them fixed. This, I can state with absolute certainty would not have been the case when I was in the States. Now, I don’t want to make this piece too polarizing, but, the facts of the matter are these. I was living in what I feel is likely a common tax bracket for a lot of people, which is just barely getting by. This has been true in both Canada and the US, I haven’t got a lot to offer the job community and there are a billion low paying but livable jobs out there and like a lot of people, you do them because that is part of the social contract, you pull your weight, etc. The thing is, even in doing so, and even with kind of ok health insurance, unless I was brought in under duress or for emergency reasons, going to the doctor/hospital was just not worth it. Let me repeat that. My well being was not worth it. Again, for those hard of hearing or in the back, or too busy counting their stock options, my life was not high enough on my list of priorities to be considered worth paying for. Or, more importantly, going into debt for. Which, by the way, I am, I am in debt in the States to a hospital to the tune of about $2000, because I thought maybe I was having a heart attack and felt in that one case it might have been worth it, maybe. But those are the stakes. That is what it had to take. In that particular case, I was fine and it was just garden variety anxiety, which made swallowing that “deductible” (the bit not covered by your insurance) harder to swallow, because now I owed two grand that I didn’t have for no particularly good reason. This, I posit, is a problem.

It isn’t just a US bashing thing, by the way, this is a global thing, but I’ll get to that. The whole point is that more and more human beings are facing decisions about themselves that affect their existence with absolutely no means to do so. The whole modern world is driven by money and if you have it, that is super, but if you don’t, you are fucked. Now, for you reading this who are about to say “well I make enough money, these people are just lazy, and probably commies!!!” I will kindly say fuck you right to your face, you can go make the biggest fist you can and fuck yourself right to death in the orifice of your choosing. Yeah, people can find these “better” jobs that are always being touted by the privileged, but that will mean that no one is fucking doing the jobs that they left behind to better themselves. Guess what that means Karen, get your own old lady diarrhea latte from Starbucks and tip yourself. If you work eight, or more hours every day, five days a week, which if you do the math, is one third of your day, or one half if you don’t count the bit where you’re FUCKING SLEEPING, you should be able to afford to live. That, is what I was lead to understand, was the social contract. That’s the deal, you work, you prove your value to society, you get to live. Part of living is maintaining this stupidly complex vehicle we pilot about with what we like to call our conscious mind. Now, like everything in this world as it stands, this maintenance costs money. Well, I make money you will say, and I will say that in most cases you don’t make enough. YOU. DON’T. MAKE. ENOUGH. TO. LIVE. So much for that contract huh?

That is the thing. Most of the people I have met in this world are doing everything in their power to live. Not win, not succeed, just live. They want to maybe do some fun stuff, have fun with family and friends, but nothing I would say is outrageous as far as ambition goes, and most of them are just doing that and are about one misstep from not. The biggest reason for this seems to come down to the fact that the choice is, go get that suspicious thing checked out and pay an ungodly amount of money, or wait and see if it gets better or kills you. Every choice when it comes to our fundamental wellbeing is holding us for ransom. Oh, and hey “social medicine” countries, don’t go patting yourselves too hard on the back. Yes, everything I have had done and saved my life has been comped, but there is still a price to be paid, consideration to be taken. First of all, taxes, which is kind of prepaying for getting sick, and there is tangible benefit to that which I will not argue, but that money is also still desperately needed elsewhere. Additionally, even if you get the care you need, can you afford to take the time to get it? Like I said, I have been in and out of hospital over the last month, and if I happened to be employed, would I have been able to do this without losing my job? I am on the verge of getting one and I am terrified that if they find out I went back to the hospital they might rescind their job offer because I might be too much of a risk for their investment. All of this, every single one of these factors holds so much weight for the average person and it is killing us, literally.

There is absolutely no reason for this. None. I want to make this perfectly clear. I do not care what argument you want to make, about capitalism, about free markets, about the economy, I just do not. No human being anywhere on earth, whether that is Burkina Faso, Jordan, Sweden, or the USA, should ever have to face the choice of getting medical aid or dying. It is that simple. I have pretty much always felt this way, and it wasn’t until I had faced these challenges more and more as I have gotten older and more things have broken down that it has truly crystalized for me. We cannot say as a society that we have any empathy, at all, if people are choosing to go without insulin which they need to live because they also selfishly need food. Those greedy bastards right? Now, all of this, every word I have typed, is going to fall on deaf ears, because you will either A) agree with what I am saying and maybe share this on Facebook with a “this^^” underneath it, or B) disagree and call me a snoflak faggit. Either way though, fuck all gets done and I don’t suspect it ever will. There are more people in this predicament than there are those outside of it. There are more people facing abject poverty than those that do not and that number is growing every day. We outnumber them. So who is writing this fucking contract? Today, that is what I am wondr’ing. I don’t think I will come up with any answers though, outside of remembering that the many are stronger than the few. Maybe we need to really think about that bit. In the meantime, here is a link to that track. It won’t make life any better or this piece any clearer, but it is kind of pretty and we can all agree that more pretty things in this world are better. Thanks for listening. Cheers.

Sign of the Times

Once upon a time, I had a dream as a child
A dream or a vision, the details blur with time
And I can’t say for sure, the past is lost
If it ever even existed, the doubt of it makes
Everything unsure…but I digress,
The point is, if there’s any point at all
Is I can’t remember if I was asleep or awake,
I just remember the moment.

I was walking home from school, my backpack
Keeping time with my duck foot walking
Down the hill, cross the street, along the cut,
The secret leafy shadow through backyard worlds,
The late spring sun high still, brilliant yellow
Like the eye of a daisy in a forget-me-not blue sky.

I turned and looked up. I don’t know why
I had made an art of looking at shoes
The cracks making maps of the sidewalk
I was never the daystar gazer, but today
On this day, I looked up, and for a moment everything was blue and gold,
For one breath that became stillborn.

There was a flash, I remember the flash
And a wind that pulled up, like the sky was breathing too.
It pulled the air out of me, a hand pressing upon the bellows of my chest,
Squeezing selfish, breath stolen to the point that the blue sky dimmed,
Only for a moment, but when you can’t breathe, a moment is forever.

There was the flash, then the flame
The blue devoured by hungry oranges and yellows and purples,
The fire crossing the sky like ink in clear water,
Everything burning up all at once,
Grass crackling, leaves of ash swirling
Grit and bark and flesh all turning to the dust we are told we are.

There was nothing, no time, just burning, time had swallowed itself and there was just fire and no breath, no breath at all and I wanted to breathe but I couldn’t, I wanted to cry but tears became steam and there could be no weeping, no pain, just fear, just the terror rising to choke and make it so I couldn’t breathe ever ever again, caught up in breathlessness and I wanted to breathe again so badly but there was just the roaring of fire and the hand around my chest.

I woke up then
Or my wandering mind fell out of its daydream nightmare
The sky was blue, the sun was yellow
The leaves green and blowing in a breeze without hunger
And I just turned and walked home,
As if the whole of everything and me in it hadn’t just burned,
Hadn’t been swallowed whole by endlessly hungry, desperate thirst, and no breathing.

I wonder sometimes, what it meant,
But then again, I wonder if it even happened,
The same way I wonder if I ever went to school,
Or kissed a girl, or grew up and regretted everything.
I can’t even be sure that I ever was, so what meaning can there be in these phantoms of signs of dreams that maybe were.

The only hint I have, is that sometimes my heart stops
And a fist gathers around my ribs
And I cannot breathe.

What Was I Saying Again…?

There’s a dam in the steam of consciousness and the banks are broke, but who’s supprised by that, the moneylenders are always destitute, shivering in the cold corners of the mausoleums on Wall Street hunched over greasy fires fingers splayed in Bob Cratchet gloves wondering where all that beautiful lucre has gone as they toss a few more bills into the hungry orange and yellow. But that’s not where I wanted to go; the compass spins to all points though and were the needle goes I guess my arm has to follow, and there might be a dragon at the end and I like dragons quite well, their greed is more comprehensible and they make excellent tea if you ask nicely and aren’t some Axe wearing clod in a tin can. What was I saying about the weather? Is the sky outside blue or did I dream of Ocean again? What is the purpose of tenpenny nails that gather in my pockets? I’ve lost the thread, do you know what happened to it, did it hide in the knots of bellybuttons? Maybe it’s hanging the paper birds that are wheeling in the not sky blue above as I dangle one footed from this old lampost that pretends to be tree but it’s not fooling anyone, trees don’t shine like this, it’s different, and the light is too awake for the time of year, so it’s definitely lampost and not tree. The breeze is nice and it pushes me pendulum and the angles all change so that everything can wear new faces. I need a new one, this one is too old and I don’t like it’s sourness, the wrinkles on it don’t tell very nice stories and it really needs to be different somehow. I have a collection and I’ll try a new one on tomorrow I think, if the eagle that pecks my liver out will just untie me. I don’t know what the issue is, it was just fire and they were cold and there were things in the dark that howled. Maybe that was just in my head though and it’s Tuesday in the Midwest and the tornado sirens are singing their merry disasters. I don’t know, maybe I am not here. I don’t want to be here, I want to be Elsewhere and elsetime and I think I’m drowning because the waters rise and I am going to float while these lovely Queens in drag to gag over guide me to rest, singing something by Lou Reed. I’ll go back to sleep, pull up my dirt covers because it’s warm under here even as the snow begins to fall making the quilt perfect and white and I’ll sleep deep and forget that I ever was and the fieldmice will nest in my eye sockets and the crows will borrow my tongue and lie with it, such beautiful imposters in widow weed rags and I can forget and forget and forget…what was I saying again?

Whumptober: Days 1 & 2

At first, it was the weight, the weight of the manacles that he shouldn’t have been able to feel at all. He couldn’t touch The Real and The Real wasn’t supposed to touch him, yet instead of the presence of another object, just the sense of resistance, there was weight, and now there was cold. The smooth steel around his wrists, locking him to the table were both heavy and cold. The Imposter shook his head; this wasn’t right, not right in the slightest, but then again, neither was the fact that he was held prisoner. The first wing beats of fluttering panic feather touched the edges of his mind, his eyes flicking around, taking in the few details of the room he was in. 

Other than the doorway, the walls were smooth, white, unblemished. The table in front of him and the chair he sat upon were brushed steel. That was it, and that was all. The lines were perfect, austere, clinical in their severity. This room, not unlike he himself, was its purpose. Its purpose was to be as real a room, as real a prison as possible. It was serving its purpose far too effectively. The Imposter could feel the stark realness of it seeping into him, with him in the center of it like infection trapped in a fever blister. His mind reached out, sought The Boarder, strained for it but for him, now, it was as ephemeral as dreams were to the mortals, no more than cobwebs slipping through desperate fingers.

He moved his hands and the steel bit into his wrists. He could feel air on his skin, the fine hairs he had made with his own mind raising up along his arms and the back of his neck, the fear prickles repulsive. He didn’t HAVE skin, or hair upon it, he wasn’t real, not Really Real. He kept repeating that, over and over in his mind, “I am not, I am nothing, I am less than dream…” Yet, the room kept interrupting him. It kept insisting that it was there and it was made for him, to keep him here, and therefore, he WAS here and he was trapped.

He closed his eyes, tried to shut out the stark whiteness of his cage, working inward, to the point in him where The Gyre spun, the point he was, for a point is nothing, it is the only thing that exists without dimension, the empty pinhole through which raw nothing flowed into The Universe in order to become Something. It was there, but only faintly. In his mind, The Imposter cupped his hands gently around that point, like a child holding a firefly. Around the edges of him, he could feel, nerve endings firing information, telling him he was still, unmoving, but moving on the inside, heart beating, lungs filling and emptying. All things that absolutely shouldn’t be. The fingers of sensation crawled over his new skin, worming over him. He heard a shuddering sob and recognized that he had made it. All around him he felt his form becoming that which it had aped becoming another prison, nailing him to the world. He rocked in place as he became aware of his cells becoming, then slowly dying. He felt age, he felt like they all must feel, bombarded by a world that was killing them by inches.

The chains rattled as The Imposter clenched his fists in The Real, but was just holding tighter to the nothing point of magic within him, clinging fast to the tiny spark of The Gyre, feeling hot wetness on his fresh cheeks. He was afraid, terrified, for the very first time emotion not an intellectual exercise but a monster kicking over the orderly furniture of his brain. He lashed out, in his head, but his body moved as well, his new, Real body and it hurt as the manacles cut deep. He had begun to rave, not that he was fully aware of it. The observers were, but for now, he was not cognizant of them. They just watched, from the outside, satisfied that he was theirs. They watched as a being older than Time (but not by much) thrashed and gibbered in their purposeful prison.

The Imposter moaned, curling in on himself, feeling bare; they had taken his Great Black Coat™️, but more importantly they had taken his power. He was weak and helpless and bound and was dying, oh, he was dying every second that he was Real. In his head, unbidden, a pair of eyes arose, blue, sharp, the eyes that had begun it all, that had seen him when they shouldn’t have. They loomed in his mind, and he knew, he knew they’d be looking for him, they’d want to free him and a part of him so desperately wanted them to find him, to save him from being Real…but he knew as well, knew deep in the bones that he now had that that was what the shadowy They wanted. They must not get what they want, not ever.

The inner hands pulled from the point, from the feeble connection to The Gyre and they wove, strands of Nothing knotting together, forming a cocoon about him. In this room, he was Real, but with his failing strength he made himself vanish from everywhere this wasn’t. The eyes, they wouldn’t find him, no matter how much he, or their owner might wish it. The Imposter cut himself off from the rest of everything completely, abandoning hope, just waiting for the weight of everything to crush him down.

Outside of the room, in the wider world, The Boarder was fading. The residents of The Real went about their lives, going to work, driving down to the shops, picking up the kids from school, aware only that something was subtly wrong as those Outside lurked and waited and felt the Outside bleeding In. With the guardian gone, with The Boarder failing, all of everything was poised to become much, much more interesting. Somewhere that still wasn’t, there was laughter, and a sense of deep, deep satisfaction.

Purpose

Astra caught sight of her reflection for a moment in the clear waters of the fountain in the Abby courtyard, the ripples made from the water pouring out of the vessel in the statue of Iona’s arms making her already somewhat ethereal features seem more otherworldly. “Godstouched” the sisters called her, her flesh blessed in the womb, one that brings light to the world. Wasn’t that why she’d taken orders at the abby? To serve The Lady of Waters and be the good that washed over the world, a salve for the wounds made by the wicked and unjust? Mother Superior said it was a calling, a Great Purpose, yet Astra didn’t feel anything of the sort. She sat upon the stone lip of the fountain’s basin, watching the gentle bustle of the other sisters, each and every face alight with contentment. They found their purpose in the tasks of the community, the toil of the abby’s gardens that would feed those in need, the endless hours in the hospice, holding the hands of the stricken, closing wounds, cooling fevers, washing the mortal soil from the bedclothes, all of them at peace with their good works. So why wasn’t she content? All of this was for the greater good and she, Godstouched, was good, wasn’t she? Ever since she had come to the seclusion of this convent Astra had attended her duties with a devotion that to most seemed fervent, but the careful observer might call it desperate. In her, deep in her, there was something waiting, growing restless, making the bones of her itch. What was it, what more did she need to find this purpose everyone else seemed to possess?

She splashed her fingers through her reflection, rising and swallowing her bitterness as she stood, hands smoothing her novitiate robe, the rough woven cotton tugging at her fingers. Astra turned her back to the fountain, head lowered as she took a steadying breath, preparing herself for another day of pious work and hoping, no, begging that maybe at last she would feel what the others felt. Then, just behind her, there was a sussorus, as of the sounds of skirts rustling.

“My, aren’t you the hungry one” the voice was deep, soft, and rich, feminine, yet not, inviting, yet at the same time tinged with a cruelty and callousness that raised the fine hairs on the back of Astra’s neck. She whirled, eyes starting wide at the image that confronted her. In the place on the fountain ledge she had just occupied was a woman, dress all in red, fine silks and brocades clinging to her slender body in every shade of red one could conceive. Even her hands seemed clad in long gloves of dark crimson, the slender fingers of one trailing through the clear waters of the pool. The eyes turned toward Astra glinted, the irises silver, like new minted coins, a deep mirth flashing in their depths, reflected in the small smirk that tugged suggestively at the corners of her blood red lips. All of the bright color never touched her skin though, pale and cold as marble. She turned towards Astra, the low neckline of her bodice plunging so deeply that the inner curves of her high, firm breasts showed perfectly, every movement graceful…and somehow…predatory.

“E-e-excuse me M’Lady, I-I must not have seen you there…I’ll fetch Mother Superior for you immediately.” Astra turned, hoping her flushed cheeks weren’t as obvious as their burning felt, suddenly confronted by this vision, thinking her some noblewoman here to ease her conscience of the burdens of her decadence by donation or perhaps some tolken service.

“Why? I am not here because she called, I am here for you my sweet Astra” the voice purred, halting Astra in her tracks, her face turning back, eyes wide in shock and puzzlement.

“M-m-me?”

“Who else? Who else in this…” and here the woman gazed about the courtyard with the condescension of the truly superior…”this place, could possibly interest me?”

“But…but I am nobody M’lady. I think you must be mistaken.”

“You are nobody, but I am not mistaken, not in this” the woman stood, moving towards Astra, one hand slightly outstretched, as if touching the air before her, stroking currents, or conducting music only she could feel or hear.

“Well, I think you have this time, I do not know who you are, or how you came to be here, but I think it best if you left, immediately, before I call the abby porters and have you removed!” Astra drew herself up, the way this woman had dismissed her having rankled, her head tossing slightly, her long, shimmering white hair flicking as she stood upon her dignity.

“No, I don’t think so” the laugh in the words blew all of the confidence being “Godstouched” from Astra, leaving her once more flustered, uncertain. The woman began to circle her slowly, eyes wandering up and down, assessing, weighing, stripping away. Astra turned in place to follow her movements, feeling another flush steal up her neck and cheeks, feeling suddenly bare, naked in an awful, full, and complete way she had never known.

“If you do not leave this moment, I shall scream!”

“By all means, if it will make you feel any better” the woman glanced about briefly, the pale column of her throat for some reason making Astra’s breath catch in her throat. “It won’t do any good however, as I’ve made certain we won’t be interrupted.” Astra’s gaze followed the path The Lady’s had taken, and at first she could not see it but then, then noticed the sisters about their tasks as if neither of them were there. All about her, the life of the abby continued to move around them, but seemed separated, cut off, all of the familiar figures oblivious to Astra and the vision that was The Lady.

“Now then, to business shall we? I have heard you calling out to me, and I have blessed you beyond measure by answering…”

“Called you?…”

“Yes, now don’t interrupt” the full lips poured in a small gesture of displeasure and Astra found herself fall silent. “Your desire called me, my sweet child, the sweet aching within you, this need of yours for…Purpose. It consumes you so completely and it has been far too long since I’ve felt such exquisite need from one of your kind.” The tone was superior, the look on The Lady’s face smug…and hungry. 

“I don’t know what you mean, I-I have found my purpose here.”

“We both know the lie of that.” Circling, ever circling, Astra revolved as The Lady paced round and round her, those silver coin eyes digging into her, bright and sharp, burrowing deep into flesh and bone and down, oh down, deep down into the innermost heart of her.

“I am here to do good, to use the light within me for the good of all.” Even as she said them, Astra could hear the hollowness in the words.

“Good is just a force. One of many. It pushes and pulls, gaining ground or ceding it to its opposite, evil. Each must exist, defining the other by the very force it exerts. But it is, in the end, a force, and lacks its own direction. Do you really want your life to be driven by something that has no heed of itself, let alone you?”

“I just…I just want to know…to know what it is I am meant for.”

“You can be ‘meant’ for anything you choose, and that is the proposition I bring, that of choice.” The Lady circled closer, one hand still strumming the air, but closer than before, as if seeking out Astra and Astra found that at one and the same time herself both craving and repulsed the thought of that hand upon her.

“What choice?”

“To be the hand behind the scenes, to be the point around which things move, all the great cogs of the universe, the stings that pull and the levers that push, to be the will moving the forces into their proper channels. I offer you the chance to be the catalyst, a giver of Purpose.” The circling stopped suddenly, The Lady in front of Astra, dangerously close, the small, secret smile hovering about the corners of her mouth, as if at a jest only she could see or understand.

“And how…how do I make this choice?” Astra’s mouth was dry as she spoke. Her pulse seems of a sudden to be a hammer pounding at the prison of her veins, thudding hard and fast im the hollow of her throat. She tried to swallow but found she could not. Even before The Lady spoke she knew the answer, she knew she had given it by the half step she had made forward without thinking, knew the answer and both feared and wanted it.

“It is simplicity itself.” The red fingered hand rose, the extended forefinger glistening…oh gods, not gloves, not covered in silk or satin but bright, fresh blood…”all you must do to be free my child, to move the whole of creation, is to give yourself to me.” The finger brushed Astra’s lips and she could taste salt and copper. A shudder of revulsion or pleasure, she could not tell which, not any longer, ran through her body, taught as the string of a bow. Closer, closer, The Lady pressed forward, bloody fingers caressing Astra’s pale cheek, leaving behind pink streaks…”that is all I ask, is for you, my sweet, give everything you are to me and I will give you Purpose”

Astra felt her body at the brink of some terrible precipice, the world around her fading away until there was only the crimson and white of The Lady, the hard silver eyes, the weapon of her mouth, the scent of musk and bitter herbs that perfumed her skin and breath. There was that ache in her, no longer dull but bright and sharp, dragging across the whetstone of her need. Her breath was ragged, her eyes flickering side to side, the prey caught in a trap of its own devising.

“Will you my sweet, will you give yourself to me?” The lips that whispered the words were but a hair’s breadth from her skin, breath hot and soft in her ear.

“Yes…”

“Then I shall take you”

The Lady moved swiftly behind Astra, her mouth pressing to Astra’s skin just below the lobe of her ear, teeth dimpling the flesh, flesh that was suddenly on fire, every nerve and fiber alight, burning brightly, the bloody hands moved to Astra’s shoulders, pulling the simple robe off and down, their hunger ushering it down Astra’s body, over the fullness of her breasts, the swell of her hips, falling in a pool a her feet. With a suddenness, she was naked in the Abby courtyard, trembling like a leaf in a strong wind. Her nipples stiffened, the flesh contracting, becoming so hard they hurt, making her whimper, making her nearly sob but only because the pain itself felt so very good.

The Lady’s hands seemed everywhere at once, and everywhere they touched was fire, as if the tips of her fingers were hot wires able to touch Astra more completely than any other. There was nothing of her that was not exposed to The Lady’s terrible hunger, no nook or cranny she did not plumb. Astra felt the movement of one hand down her belly, fingers creeping lower and lower, anticipation mixing with abject horror as Astra felt her hips angle outwards, shoulders resting against the only constant in this new universe, her legs shaking as they opened, offering…

Slick fingers burrowed between delicately folded flesh, blood mingling with honey. Astra’s back arched, breath a captive, wild thing in her throat, the wicked fingertips pulling pleasure out of her like theives, her womanhood aching in a need like she had never felt, hips now grinding upwards, needing to be nearer those delicious fingers the hand that wanted her, the hand that owned her, giving herself, giving, giving, and giving again.

She felt herself entered, felt herself completed in a way both wonderful and terrifying, the mouth on her neck biting deep now, holding her, it’s pretty, holding her at the mercy of the hands that took, that reached in and took everything she had. Astra writhed in the arms of The Lady, a pure whiteness becoming stained with slippery red, her heaving breasts painted over with dripping crimson that ran like the tears down her cheeks. Her body was like an open wound The Lady dug deep within, taking the insides of her. Astra felt herself thrusting, felt the hard heel of that predatory hand pressed against her hood, the fingers inside her making a motion of beckoning and her hips answered, her muscles clenching down tightly, squeezing round the invaders, but only holding them in tighter, even wanting them deeper. Now that the giving had begun, it was all she wanted, to give over and be empty.

With a suddenness that was blinding, Astra felt every muscle in her snap taut, her body a perfect arc, her shoulders against The Lady, the balls of her feet on stone but all else just describing a line in space of extasy, the curve of a wave she was at the very peak of. Yet this wave didn’t crash, there was no release, just a new, endless instant of being caught and pinned by brutal pleasure. Into the thunder of the blood in her ears Astra heard The Lady speak, the words as beautiful and terrible as naked swords:

“To whom do you belong?” There was a hand at her throat, the fingers bands of steel, and in that moment they would permit only one response, only one. Astra struggled, clawing for her voice, even as her being convulsed once more in spasms of lust…

“To whom do you belong”

“To…”

“To whom do you belong?!?”

“To you…”

“TO WHOM DO YOU BELONG?!?!?!”

The words thundered in Astra’s ears and her response was ripped raw and bleeding from her throat…

“TO YOU, OH, TO YOU MY QUEEN!!!!”

…and then…she was falling, her body bereft of strength, newborn weak as she sagged to her knees, arms at her sides in a posture like a child’s discarded doll. She could still feel The Lady behind her, feel her presence in her mind as well and knew it would be there always, The Lady within her forever and ever, closer than any possible lover. Astra sobbed, spent, afraid but at the same time so satiated, so very complete in the emptiness left in the wake of The Lady’s taking.

“Oh, you will be one of my very favorites” fingers caressed Astra’s shoulders gently, tracing down the blades…”and for what you gave me, a small gift in return, so that you may more swiftly serve my purpose.”

Then there was pain, where she had nothing but pleasure before, Astra howled in agony as those fingers opened her flesh, pushing into her, violating the sanctity of her body, moving muscle, rewiring nerve, sculpting bone, fingers curled within, pulling, tearing, tearing slivers of her bath soul. With a shriek of triumph, The Lady jerked her hands from within Astra, pulling forth wings, bright and silvered but still streaked over with new blood. For a moment they stood, flared, as Astra screamed her agony, head thrown back in pure, animal pain, howling until there was no sound and her throat tasted of blood and ashes. This last was too much and she slumped, head forward, near to the cobbles at her feet, strands of her white hair hanging limp, or clinging to her sweat and tear stained cheeks. 

Sharp bootheels clicked as The Lady strode around to her front, bending low, one fingertip lifting Astra’s chin, her eyes gazing up into those cruel, silver coins above her. 

“You are so very beautiful my child, and you will move the whole world for me, my power is upon you and you are my hand that pulls the strings.” She raised her dainty, terrible hand and a drop of blood welled to the tip, falling downwards to strike Astra’s brow, leaving a single, bright red splatter between her eyes. “Rise now and BE your Puropse”…and with that last, and one further, throaty, satisfied laugh, The Queen All In Red vanished, leaving nothing but the faint sussorus of skirts.

Astra slowly stood, her legs quaking, her movements like a fawn first learning to stand. She looked about her, the world becoming real once more, asserting itself into her mind. All about her there was a circle of faces, expressions of shock, of horror, the backs of hands pressed to lips. There was something almost comical in the way they looked, as if the limits of reason had been reached but the human face couldn’t express it, that these simple woman, confronted with the naked, newly winged form of one of their sisters just couldn’t not respond with anything more than the banality of scandalized affront.

They were nothing though, not any more. Now she had Purpose, and her Queen. She looked at the plain, paper bag faces around her and laughed, her wings flexing, yearning for sky. She leapt into the bright blue of that morning, naked and fresh and full of everything she had ever wanted. Far below, they all watched as a new, bloody-winged angel left them all behind.

Unreality

All that I can taste is blood and rust,
Salt and decay
Lips gummed to teeth
Tongue fenced ’round by crumbling tenements
Trembling refugee in silence.

Dare to speak, venture forth?
Upon whose door to knock
Where voice might find shelter,
Welcomed and loved as comrade
Invitation of arms opened or bright hearth?

Yet houses and streets both empty yet not,
Seeming ghosts if themselves, phantom cars,
Stop motion zoetrope flickering shapes,
Shuffling images, flat shapes, barely noticed blurring
Jerking marionette starts and fits.

Television reality uneasy visions
Cathode tube sunlight lends
Brittle edges, HD sharpness
Streets are uncanny vallies
Perfect facsimilies, disturbing, unlovely, unquiet.

Madness perhaps, but who could tell?
Looking for painted sackcloth, corner peering furtive
To catch the fifth business at their tricks
Maybe pick up a coffee at the craft services
Concealed as a Starbucks.

By inches replaced,
Swapped out for bad imitation brand
Almost but not quite even better than the real thing
Tasting of rust and blood,
Salt and decay.

What Happened Further

Far above the grumbling of the traffic, the rising sun rose fat and butter yellow, pouring thick, golden syrup light past the broken stump grey teeth of the skyline. The sky was a deep blue, fading to paler and paler shades towards the line of the horizon, layers of gauzy mist boiling around the edges of sight. If one were to cast their eyes over the rooftops, in amongst the old cisterns squatting upon rickety legs, the forests of old antenna and satellite dishes whispering one to another, their eyes might alight upon a figure standing precariously upon the very edge of one of the buildings. Then again, one might not.

He looked a slash of night sliced neat and clean through the growing daylight, the tails of his coat ruffling only slightly in the feeble fingers of the breeze that even up so high wheezed and struggled to tug upon them. The Imposter squinted into the rising sun, eyes watching the milling crowds below, people and cars and busses traversing paths to and fro as if on rails or writing out in serpentine lines strange runes of daily ritual. This was not really his time, at least so he felt, there was no real restriction put upon him yet he always felt more acclimated to the between times, dawn, twilight, those moments that were not quite one thing or the other. His realm was the cracks between things.

He cast a glance down to his right hand, long fingers parted, the daylight streaming through them, creating an illusion of separate ribbons. They scissored closed suddenly, leaving the stranded beams hanging limp between, the color of fresh clover honey. As he gathered up his new prize the still, heavy air beside him resounded to the beating of wings, a familiar shape feathering the corner of his eye in ragged shadow.

“All is well I trust?” The Imposter turned, looking down at the crow settling his wings along his sleek back, ruffling them repeatedly till they rested to their owner’s satisfaction. “I must say, I thought you cut a fine figure, grey looks very good on you.” At this the crow tilted an ink drop eye, turned, ran his sharp beak down one glistening black feather until each strand was in place.

“Thank you sire” the beak moved and the words ran out of it smooth as silk. While some might know crows could talk, they might well expect it to be a rasping, coughing voice, hardly the deep, rolling Spanish accent that issued forth. It was fortunate then that foiling expectations just happened to be one of the small joys of the speaker. “Things do seem quiet for the time being, The Brethren have been bringing me report and not all have come in, but everything thus far has been in order.”

The Imposter spun, folding down cross-legged upon the ledge, running the strands of daylight through his fingers, parting them over and again until they became thinner, filigree that shimmered and glinted over the dark hollows of his palms. “What of the girl then?” His tone remainder casual, yet Skergaal knew his lord well and could sense the curiosity begging to be satisfied.

“I have had her watched for some time now, as you asked my lord. There appears to be nothing out of the ordinary, just a normal, mortal girl, perhaps twenty-six years of age, although I can’t swear to that. My people do try to be thorough, but I didn’t think it necessary to authorize breaking and entering to get more precise details.” The crow shuffled back and forth, a soldier making report, strutting a bit along the narrow stonework. “I don’t think she is anything to be concerned with, perhaps just a touch more perceptive than most, or perhaps just able to see by happenstance. It has happened before.”

The Imposter closed his eyes, letting his mind see clearly. There was not one thing he had seen that he could not remember clearly and in the soft shadows behind his lids a pair of eyes appeared, he could see the curve of them, the striations in the irises, all the subtle shades of blue rippling through, lines and coronas of color in vivid detail. “You keep saying thus my friend, yet I think there is more.” While it was a general rule that he could not be seen by mortals when he did not will it to be so, even those that could, lunatics, young children that life and passage of time had not yet beaten wonder out of, even…magicians, all felt different. No, this was something else, she had seen him clear and as himself, seen right into the bones of him and that was not right, was worrisome. “It May amount to nothing, as you say yet I feel there is somewhat to be watchful of, it is an anomaly, and I think should not be overlooked.”

Feathers ruffled softly “I think it unwise to concern yourself too much over the affairs of the mortals lord” Skergaal shifted his feet, both out of apprehension as well as the growing heat of the brick beneath them. “Even if this girl was possessed of any scrap or crumb of true power, what of it? Even the most mighty of them have proven at most minor inconveniences, and this one seems hardly that.”

“Yet you seem to be withholding your full counsel, why might that be I wonder?” The Imposter’s eyes flicked open, golden brown, piercing, deep as wells. In his lap his fingers still played with the threads, weaving, plating, nimble and dexterous. “Could it perhaps be that you fear my judgement could be faulty in the matter? Or perhaps you felt her gaze upon you today and have concerns of your own?” This last came with a Cheshire grin, thin lips turning up in amusement as the alert eyes caught the nervous shuffling.

“Do you spy on me now my lord?” Skergaal tilted his bullet head, one eye cocked to meet The Imposter’s formidable gaze, almost, but not quite yet as sharp. “I would hope that my loyalty was not so in question as to lead to such measures.”

“And I would hope you wouldn’t deflect the question with another, a rather obvious device, my most cunning of feather dusters” while The Imposter had no doubt that the affront was entirely feigned he added the gentle needling to put Skergaal more at his ease. “Come now, tell it true, what did you make of her?”

Skergaal fluttered his wings, turning his back upon Nevermore, head held up at a ‘well I never’ angle, then turning to look back. “As I said, she seems simple enough, perhaps a bit more put together than some of their young. A bit of a study in contradictions at times, although I must say that could go for the lot of them…and yet” here Skergaal trailed off, a pensive expression swirling in the depths of his eyes “…and yet, there was a moment, a brief sliver of time where I felt her gaze tugging at the edges of my seeming, little mice fingers trying to unknot the weaving of it. I can’t say for certain, but given time, she might have seen through.” The words seemed to come more and more reluctantly as if the sharp edged beak were trying to snap them to ribbons before they could find utterance.

“I see” The Imposter returned his eyes to his handiwork, now holding a delicate net, perhaps of veil of woven sunlight, little jewels of it forming the knots between the diamond panes. It sparked and winked, an utter impossibility of golden amber held betwixt his fingertips, giving the dark bronze of his skin an unearthly luster. With a suddenness he stood, unfolding and striding over the rooftop in one motion, slipping the wondrous trinket into one of his proverbially deep pockets.

“Master, what vexes you, why the alarm?” Skergaal burst into ungainly flight, the suddenness of Nevermore’s departure having him hop fluttering into the air, wings splashing in the thick air to keep up.

“No vexation, at least no great one.” The Imposter’s long legs took him swiftly onward, boots scrunching over the gravel upon the rooftop. “Your words have given me more to think on, yet at present there is not much to be done about the matter now.” As he moved, The Border gathered, bright new day faded to muted shades, replaced by twilight blues and purples, strange stars now pricking out of the sky. The building beneath his feet shifted, rose up taller of a sudden, became a steep peak as the church spire that had been just between this building and the next a hundred years ago became a slope his feet climbed effortlessly. “We have lingered long enough in The Real for now and if there are no pressing matters there, I am sure there will be in The Borderlands. Time waits for no one, the insufferable bastard.”

“Very well my lord” Skergaal found the match to The Imposter’s pace, wings beating more sedately as he followed along through the growing familiar strangeness all about them. Gothic brickwork became something more Art Deco, replaced then with peeling paint and rust grimed grillwork as The Imposter descended a fire escape that hadn’t existed for decades. Deeper and deeper the two wound their way into The Borderlands, both lost in silent thought, finding comfort in the weirdness as the bright world closed up behind them.

The Imposter Remembers

The wind makes the tails of my coat snap, pennants whipping behind me. It moans, softly, but steady, a constant, drawn out exhalation, weary, grieved, the sound after the first sharpness of loss, when it’s become dull, familiar. The only other sound at all in the vast, flat emptiness is the hiss of dust, fine particles rubbing one over the other, small, but when multiplied by a billion billion times it becomes a delicate roaring, the terrible monotone of absolute desolation. The dust is red, fine as sand yet gritty and it stings my cheeks.

In every direction there is nothing, maybe the faintest trace of geography, the hint of a hill worn down, pressed into submission by Time’s heavy thumb, or the suggestion of a valley, but for the most part the land is a table beneath the perfect bowl of the sky. It is a nothingness made so much deeper when added to the knowledge of abscence, the ache of a festering within flesh that appears whole, the rememberence of a wound scabbed over, healed, but still present. There was something here once and it lingers in the hole it has left.

I know, right where I stand was a plaza, the architecture of it a wonder, stone and steel and living plants woven together, hung with lights, glistening with fountains that would lift up columns of air and water that caught the beams of lanterns and threw up jeweled fire into the night air. Beside me, a bench still holds the lover’s that sat, hands entwined in knotwork of love and flesh and bone, content to be each with each, watching the passers by but only with concern for one another. Children swirl around, have me spinning on my heels as they run, a school of bright fish flicking this way and that, laughing, mischievous, full of wonder and dreams and promise. I can look into a shopfront, see the makers at their trades, here haggling, there bent to their craft, one taking their meal with a spouse that brought it, another passing along the secrets held within a lifetime of callouses, failures, and successes. It was all here, and now it is gone. I see it still though, I must, there is not a thing I do not remember, not one since my eyes opened. Every single moment exists perfect and complete within my mind, drawing the was over the is, making a palimpsest, a double exposure that defines the emptiness and drags it across my memory like a razor.

I had no choice. If I had not acted, the one who came from Outside would have riven the entire universe, shaped it into what its vision thought it should be and all would have been undone, every life across billions of planets snuffed out. I tried to reason with it, tried words to steer it from its course but these failed. It was far too sure in its reason, built an impregnable fortress of certainty and righteousness. So I, being the guardian of The Real, sought to fight it. That, that was foolish. The power of it was vast and deep, so deep the well of it could crush you down just by the pressure of it being. Those inside do not change anything, not really. Magic, power, it can be used to make things happen, bound in patterns and spells, but reality itself remains the same as both hammer and nail remain fundamentally the same when applied one to the other. Their nature never changes. Those Outside though, with the power in them make things different, can simply make what is in their mind be and not only be but always have been, reweaving the threads of reality. It was a power I could not withstand.

We fought across the stars, across worlds, plunging through clouded nebulae, where it passed The Real screamed, tortured into new shapes, rent apart in ragged wounds I did my best to suture shut even as I fought back, striking with every charm or spell I could remember or devise, attempting to surround it with The Border as a body might do with a cyst, condoning off its infection, but it changed and shifted and slipped free. I know not how long we fought, time flowed in torrents, a gale of it whipping me, lashing and battering as I contended with The Outsider until at the last I was weary, wounded, a blackened rag flapping at its heels while it was undiminished, a titan that would pale Chronos, towering, invincible. It turned to me and in that moment, in its eyes I could see my undoing, but not just that, my cessation, the complete unwriting of me and everything that had ever been. I could see only one avenue, one small, desperate gleaming thread, so delicate that it might snap even by clinging to it. I knew what it would mean as it and I stood upon the curvature of the planet’s atmosphere, I knew the cost down to the penny, down to the last bright life just as I knew that if I did not act the price would rise too great to account for. In that last moment, as it turned to gloat in its triumph, I broke The Border.

The Unreal poured into The Real. The space around us boiled as nothing became something and then nothing again, endlessly, warping everything it touched, dissolving the rules, eating away at the is with the isn’t as a wave might eat a castle of sand upon the shore. It crashed into The Outsider and where it was became something else, twisting so rapidly even it could not hold onto itself and was undone. Alas, it did not stop there. The planet beneath us was tortured, racked by storms of madness, stone and seas and flesh melted, ran like wax, became something else but all of it, all of it dead. By the time I’d grasped the ragged seams of reality and knotted it back together all that remained was a planet shaped grave.

All of this I can see, as I stand on the planet’s surface, on what once had been stone, in the middle of what once had been a plaza in what once had been a living city, that had once been a part of a civilization that exists only in my memory of it. I come here every year to stand upon the red, red sands and remember them. They kept their history in one long song, each new thing, every discovery, every new event another verse. I learned it long, long ago and it still exists perfectly in my mind. So every year that has passed since then, millions of years before life would even be a contemplation for its nearest neighbor, I come, and I stand in the emptiness and let the wind bite at my coat and let the dried blood sting my cheeks and I sing. I sing the decades, the centuries, the rising and falling mingling with the dull ache of the moaning wind, I sing the life of a people that were beautiful and terrible as all other people save these where stalks mowed too soon leaving their field fallow and barren. Alone, I sing and remember, always, my purpose and my failure.

The Imposter Has Coffee

The breeze winds it’s way through the canals, cool, but not unpleasantly so. Early morning light washes over cobbles, not entirely succeeding in banishing lingering bits of the night still hiding in the cracks and under windowsills. The table I occupy sits just out front of a small cafe, mostly empty but filling up slowly with somewhat harried and bleary eyed people in smart suits and skirts. The waiter brings me my espresso, leaving it on the wrought iron tabletop, a vaguely baffled expression clouding his features as he struggles with the conundrum of why he’s serving no one. I don’t need to eat or drink but sometimes the mood strikes me and when I do so I always pay and tip well as I appreciate the effort it takes most to accommodate me. I appreciate good service.

I take a sip, roll the rich, dark coffee over my tongue. Say what you want about humans, they have found several excellent indulgences. I place the cup back upon it’s saucer, pull out a slim silver case and remove a cigarette. I inhale deeply, expelling a plume of blue-grey smoke, twisting it into strange shapes, tableaus of writhing forms that twist and dance around my head, amusing myself as I wait. Then, of a sudden, there is the delicate thunder of wings.

“Of all the habits you could pick up m’lord, must it have been one so noxious?” The chair beside me scrapes over stone and Skergaal sits, dressed today in seeming flesh and a rather sharp suit. Armani I think. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand your amusements sire.”

“Always so formal.” A slight smile crosses my lips. “Have a cup of coffee and enjoy yourself a little, it won’t hurt.” I wave at the waiter. He has no idea why his attention is diverted from walking back into the cafe but he sleepwalks over.

“A cappuccino, please” Skergaal turns his bird bright eyes to me, out of place in the narrow, predatory face. One myth is absolutely true, no one can ever hide the truth in their eyes, no matter how cunning a master of form. The waiter ambles off again, shaking his head to clear it. “After our last conversation my position seemed to be made very clear m’lord.” The tone is even, only knowing him so well can I detect the hint of reproach, the hurt. I wince a little, take a deep drag.

“I am sorry old friend, I was out of sorts already and I lost my composure. You know I value your council, cunning, and wisdom very much.” He preens just a bit, tugging on the cuffs of his shirt. “Our relationship is always a bit fraught, I being who I am but you are the closest thing I have to a true friend Skergaal, and that does mean a great deal.”

“I understand master.” There’s a look that wanders over his face for a moment then flees, perhaps sympathy, perhaps pity, but any such overt emotion is quickly replaced with the usual sternness. “I do try my best to advise, but in familiarity bounds can be overstepped.”

“Sometimes they should be. What worth is an advisor if he cannot speak the truth, even to ears that might not take pleasure in it?”

“Yes, well, the matter seems to have cleared itself up. There’s been no sign of The Outsider and his companions, the magician (this with not even remotely concealed contempt) and the warrior woman have been relatively quiet. I still think you should have been more direct.” As he speaks, the waiter brings Skergaal’s coffee, setting it down, sweat beading on his brow. Ignoring me is one thing, but Skergaal is something else. As he’d never stoop to actually transforming into a human, he simply clothes himself in a semblance of one. This means that ostensibly there is a well dressed man sitting at a table of a cafe while at the same time, inside, is a large, rather intimidating crow. Mortal minds are very, very good at convincing themselves that what they see isn’t, but limits can be tested. The look of relief on the waiters face is nearly pathetically comical.

“Anyway, to business. The Border has been relatively quiet for a while, so there’s something.”

“It is nice when things go as expected” I settle back into my chair, cup in one hand, cigarette in the other. “What if the new arrival?”

“The dragon has been settling in nicely, an absolute terror to the lands about. Several very brave but I am afraid terminally stupid knights have already met their end. The damsel it’s taken doesn’t seem to be minding her new circumstances much, in fact, I’ve report they’ve become rather good friends. Somewhat bucking tradition, but of no real concern.” Skergaal takes a slow sip, movements neat, precise.

“That’s good, and I’m not at all surprised, the beast seemed to have a deep affection for girls.”

“Other than that most recent little event, all else seems unusually stable.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed, it could be considerably more exciting”

“I know master, yet I feel this is but a prelude, I’ve a sense of storm shivering through me.”

“As is usual my friend, when does it not?” I notice some pinwheeling above, set aside my coffee, dip my hand into my pockets and scatter a fistful of seed. The air fills with green purple iridescence and liquid burbling as the pigeons settle.

“Bah, look at them, smug bastards” Skergaal bridles a bit, putting up a wall of scandalized affront. “They think they own the world, strutting about, believing themselves so clever just because the mortals stuff them silly. Gone to fat is what they’ve done, not a trace of The Navigators. Puffed out chest, putting on airs of civilization when they’re little better than flying vermin now.”

“Your people have been known to haunt the footsteps of armies in anticipation of feast, one might not put on so many airs.” I chuckle, knowing this will sting his pride a bit. “Harbingers of woe and wrack as they say old crow”

“Humph, waste not want not, they’re always going to slaughter themselves, I don’t see why good meat should go left to rot.” He glances over again, sharp eyes probing. “You know well their capacity for death, and it isn’t always influenced by the others, oft it’s their own hands turned to it.”

“I know.” There’s a new melancholy unlooked for.

“I worry for you at times Nevermore, your love for these mortals in particular, among all of your charges. The fascination may grow unhealthy.” I cast my gaze about us, watching the city springing to life, the faces of it milling about much the same as the birds at our feet. “They’ll break your heart master.”

“I know” the sigh wells up from somewhere deep, deep within the heart of me, of what I am, of memory and more than memory, what was an what is. “They always do.”

There is a long silence filled with city noise, cars, scooters, the white noise babble of voices punctuated here and there by rising shouts or exclamations. The morning is turning fine, the sky above glimpsed through a maze of ancient rooftops is robin’s egg blue. We sit, two of the strangest strangers, in an island admits so much burgeoning life. We both sip our drinks.

“Excellent coffee” Skergaal breaks silence first.

“Yes, some of the best I’ve found.”

“How are the pastries here?” I reach for another cigarette.

“Decadent, rich, and sinful” Skergaal perks up at that, settling back into his chair.

“Best call the waiter back then, I could murder one” we both have a chuckle at that. “Oh, pass one of those along, I’m gasping for it.” I pull a cigarette from my case, light it as he takes it from me and holds it to his lips, inhaling deeply. We both sit back, smoking, drinking coffee, surrounded by a cloud of smoke and disbelief. “Damn fine day master.”

“I think so too my friend, indeed, very fine.”

The Romantic Imposter

It is a fine evening, the sun making its way lazily through the deepening blue sky, gently kissing the line of the horizon. There’s some respite from the heat of the day but still, there is a haze in the air, a faint mist clinging to any bare skin. The air seems perfumed, like someone has just split open a ripe tangerine, a thick, sweet scent of flowers mingling with the usual aromas of cars and pavements and people. Yes, it is a fine evening indeed.

“I love you” the words are a sigh, the exhaling of a breath, quite, meant only for the ears of the loved. I brush past the couple, two women holding hands, one’s head resting lightly on the others shoulder as they stroll. I’m quite sure that neither would have noticed me even if I was apparent, even if I’d bowled clean into them. At best I would have been a momentary impediment to their closeness. I can see the threads, red as red as red winding between fingers, knotted and plaited in their hair, tied to lips and tongues and lashes. Not my work, no, the province of another, but I can appreciate the craftsmanship, the complexities of each tied to each, a web of words and touches.

I still along as I am wont to do, letting my eyes wander, following the strands. It seems a night for lovers, the streets cross crossed with fine weavings. A young lad stumbles, a girl laughs and just then a streak of crimson runs from her mouth to his heart. It may amount to nothing at all or it may give birth to a tapestry, but it is a beginning, a hint, a promising of expectation. Not all such seeds bear fruit, but I find the potential pregnant within them intoxicating. If nothing else after all, I am made of nothing but possible so it is my nature. I like to think I could have been a romantic.

Further on an old man is winding up the awning over his shop. His skin is pricked all over with threads, an explosion of crimson webbing him to his store, to the windows above it, to the stoop, the bustop down the way, if you follow them all they’ll touch upon the whole neighborhood in some fashion. The Legion Hall where they’d first danced, the old bench down by the park where they’d sat and held hands, fingers laced together like piano keys side by each. There’s one that flies over to ‘Nam where her letters had kept him less broken than some. One hanging above a mantle somewhere where she’d fought for them both, getting disowned in the process. All the places he and her had touched together, even the bare room where she became nothing more than a shape barely described beneath the sheets, her hand eggshell in his. Fifty six years of thread followed him as he shut up shop, thrumming beneath his skin, telegraph talking of the good and the bad and the inbetween. I can’t help but read it all, feeling a bit of the voyeur, but it makes me smile as I move through the growing evening.

It’s all beautiful in some way, I can’t help but feel it, even I, perpetually and very necessarily alone. Here and there I sneak a few stands into my pockets, they won’t be missed and are quite useful. My footsteps become a waltz, slowly turn and turn about, moved by such aching, beautiful love, all the strands of it being played by the gentle summer breeze. I sigh as well, soft and low, mingling with all the others.