Beguiled by Night

I wait, barely containing my excitement.  I realize in amusement that I'm holding my breathe.  I must be turning blue! I release the air slowly, watching the vapors of my exhalation rise in the dim light of the street lamp.  Idly, wondering if my spirit would look the same to my loved ones as I die.

Cancer infests my body.  The doctors attempted every treatment known to man and for whatever reason, I just couldn't go into remission. I had seven years of torture and only three months free.  I can feel it now.  The cells that turned Benedict Arnold are back with a vengeance, a bigger invading army, and this time, they are on the winning side.  I decided, tonight, no more.  I will live until I could live no more.  I had 29 good years in, before my body betrayed me.

In the deep dark, recesses of my pocket, my gloved hands crumple the "Kick the Bucket" list I had made when first diagnosed.  I originally had refused treatment then, but my family pleaded that my passive aggressive suicide was a sin and the ultimate selfish act.   I didn't think so.  I justified it with the idea that before there were doctors people died from cancer, so why couldn't I?  But I caved and began treatments that made me wish I were dead.

The street lamp flickers, I can hear the buzz off the electrical poles.  There's a faint smell of ozone in this cool spring night.  I'm giddy with excitement.  Something so simple, something that I had never allowed myself to do because of the Southern Baptist faith. God is watching you.  God will reward your good behavior, your faith.  Good ol' guilt factor.  Pray to be healed child. . .sick again. . .well pray harder.

Checking my watch, it's time.  I can see the people filing in.  Bouncers clicking the numbers.  The music starting, bass throbbing its promise of orgasmic pleasures. I swallow the bluish-white powder.  Taking my place in line, and loving the anonymity. For tonight, I plan on ending it well.

I did!  I look down, smiling at myself.  Sprawled out on the smooth, cool dance floor.  Memories of disco ball colors flashing, lighting up the glitter across so much bare skin. The close contact of grinding, bumping bodies, male and female arousing each other to desperation.  My stranger that I allowed myself a quickie with in the bathroom stalls was leaning over me, screaming for help.  I almost feel sorry for him, but I knew he'd get over it, after all, he didn't know me.

I feel a lessening of pressure. The silver cord connecting me to my body severs. I float gently untethered into the night, then vanish like the vapors of my exhalation, once beguiled by the night.

Sister's Piano

In the dark
you sway
sister
fingers caressing
commanding
eyes closed
soul open
aura flames
candles flicker
unearthly
inspiration
moves the world away
music
possessing you
sister
listen for
the pain
the joy
feeling
overwhelmed
sounds
vibrate
truth
of who
you are
acceptance
and
understanding
all

Happy

Happiness is now
framed by golden light
an ebony cat sits still
in front of
spring rain
splattered windows
Silver clouds leave
leisurely over
the Pinion Range
Mother Nature
beckons
come outside
baby blue skies
moss brown hills
young sprouts
cautiously peeking
checking the chilled,
clean air
My cat lightly pads to the door
Looks expectantly at me
yellow eyes gleaming
how can you ignore
these summons
so out we step
together
into the Happiness
of Now

Christmas Eve Expectations

Christmas Eve Expectations




I watched my children pass out Christmas Eve gifts to the children in the terminally ill ward. We had bought them the day before. We wrapped them in colorful paper this morning, complete with ribbons and bows. Both my kids were excited to help the community in someway. It had been their idea planted by the pastor at church last Sunday and unintentionally by a story I had told them of my childhood. So they reminded me of a promise I had once made with my brother. I had been more than happy to help fulfill their giving spirits and placate my past ghosts. Now listening to the excited voices that reflected joy and no pain from their illnesses, I was very glad again and fell into reminiscing. . .



It took Johnny and me longer than usual to arrive at the train station. The snow had fallen silently, but fast last night. There was only a thin hard crust on top and it couldn’t hold us up. I had sunk knee-deep and struggled to get out. It left me with souvenirs of clingy, balls of ice on my boot laces, dark grey wool skirt and the edges of my matching jacket. I’d semi-grumpily decided that it was pointless to pick them off. If the ice remained the same consistency, then I’d only collect more on the way home. Plus my gloves were too thin to handle getting any wetter. Sighing forcefully enough to see my breath, I focused on the fact that Johnny and I were in the same spot as last year. I could tell because of the weirdly bent nail. It reminded me of a hunched over old gnome. Glancing around, I wondered if everyone was in the same spot as last year. I could see that the Murray twins were across from us, just like previous time. They were staring hard down the tracks. I followed their gaze down the endless black line. The frosted rails seem to shiver in cold excitement with me. Soon the train would rush toward us, spraying ice and snow into a thick mist. We would scream in delight knowing when it settled, the most important car, the one in last place, would appear. The Red Caboose that contained the rich man and his overwhelming generosity.



My brother, Johnny, causally chatted with his friend, Ryan. They were both older by five years. This would be their last year to receive the gift. I checked to see if they were sad. But their faces were a study of feigned indifference. The only thing giving them away was when their eyes darted furtively down the line. Then they would mask it with a look of contempt if anyone intercepted their glance.



Ignoring them, I decided to imagine how the big the shiny silver boxes would be this year. Would they be small enough to fit one hand? Two? Would it be too big to hold like last year? I had trouble walking home because I couldn’t see over the top. I contemplated if I wanted, when the package was shaken, for it to jingle or sound muffled? This year I was hoping for muffled!



Oh, how the air bit at my nose and snuck into the openings of my old clothes. However, sensing the time was at hand, I refused to let it dampen my spirits. Yanking my coat down, and rubbing my hands up and down my arms I smiled joyfully at the noon day sun. It made the glittering, white snow twinkle and tease, “Soon, soon!”



My ears perked up, I turned my head and strained my neck to look down the thousand miles of steel. I could see it, the black-gray smoke signaling the engine’s efforts in its rhythmic approach! I yelled ecstatically with all the others, “I see it, I see it!”



Eagerly pressing forward with the crowd, my arms outstretched. We all were reaching for the carousel ring. Some of our arms were longer, some shorter, but all were the same length in desire. I wondered if he thought we looked like a horizontal forest reaching for a tilted sky. Our limbs waiting in catch positions, for the silver rain to fall!





There was organization to the chaos. For we all knew the routine. Grab it and move out of the way! I could hear paper ripping behind me already! My body tingled as my turn came, “Don’t miss!” I prayed silently through my frosty breath.



The man in the navy wool coat looked directly at me. My dancing eyes followed his lift and strong toss. He grinned widely as I barely caught the package and then pulled it in tight. I shouted my thanks and hurriedly moved out of the way. The other noisy, scrambling children surged forward to replace us. I searched for my brother behind the throng. He was holding his package, gently turning it this way and that, savoring every minute of his last one. I walked slowly and thoughtfully toward him. I was not in a hurry to invade his moment. Lifting my box to my ear, I shook it carefully and then harder, when I decided it wasn’t fragile. There was a satisfying sound of muffl-i-ness.



I reached Johnny and his eyes met mine and we answered the age old question, “Yes, we will wait until Christmas morning to open them!” We walked back home in silence. So I took the time to study my box thoroughly. The silver wrapping paper was crumpled from where I caught it. The blue velvet bow was crushed from my hug. But I didn’t care that it wasn’t in perfect condition. I was content with the knowledge that I got two gifts, today the receiving and tomorrow the opening.



We returned home, chilled from the setting sun, but warm with gratitude. Johnny and I place our presents in front of the fireplace. We rushed to bed, but we made sure we thanked God that there was someone out there who cared enough to make our lives a little bit better simply because they had so much. We also vowed out loud that someday, we would do the same.



Startled out of my memories by the loud chorus of, “Thank you, Dr. Jenny Upton, Johnny and Mary! Merry Christmas!” I responded with, “You’re welcome and may we all have many more!” Now misty eyed, I tried not to remember too hard that Johnny joined the army and died in the war. He never got to fulfill his promise and I almost forgot to fulfill mine. I whispered to him, “I swear I will do this every year from the both of us.”

sma
smg

(a writing assignment for a class that was inspired by Cynthia Rylant's, Silver Packages)

Let the Past Go

I'm supposed to

let the past go

It's so hard

It tempers every decision

every knee-jerk reaction

All become suspect

because of one

abuser

So my now, my future

 though innocent

'til proven

guilty

gets blamed

anyway

for shades of meaning

I attach to words

which

are simply

and

exactly

what you say

nothing more

nothing less

But I fear

imaginary hurts

and condemn you

my soul-mate

to be hanged

and me to

live in pain

for I cannot

let the past go

Revenge

I will 

trust you 

until you hurt me 

and then 

 you will wonder 

what happened 

to my innocence 

as I pull 

your shallow knife 

from my back, 

hand it back to you clean.

For I will not turn the other cheek, 

but I will not sink to your level. 

Be wary of me 

for when I strike, 

it will be justfied 

and it will have been you 

who have sunk the knife 

into yourself

by your own actions.

A Shot in the Dark

The abyss is

so very dark 

and deceptive

hiding death

beneath its

liquid surface

an accumulation of

all negative emotions

Reflectively alive and

waiting expectantly,

patiently 

for the ones

who think

they are above

such things

the ones

who lived

using others' pain

as their 

foundation

for their houses 

of evil

even in the face

of the Reaper's

impartial grin

and beckoning

skeletal finger

hovering above

midnight stillness

of the infamous

lake of time

they deny it

evidence 

bloody flesh,

ground up bones, 

broken dreams

embedded in their feet

dripping from 

outstretched hands

pleading their guilt, 

their sociopathic 

behavior away

Its hollow voice

reverberates

through their souls

indifferently asking

To Heaven

or to Hell?

Pray mortal

for what 

made you think

you
could walk on water

on the way to eternity

frozen eyes reflect

the cool blue sky

a contrast to

their terror
rising as
they are

sinking
below
into
mercury-like tar

oozes around

naked ankles

pulling them down

no time to drown

realization hits

too late

the first shot

the one that

damned them

to be one

with the shadows

was when

they took their

the first victim -

themselves

The metallic tones

of the Reaper

vibrates with their body's

violent shivers

It laughs

So, do you still think 

you're above all these

emotions

Especially now
you're alone
with the karmic bullet
traveling toward you
in the dark?