

through air
i used to wander through air
like a traveler through a forest,
eyes closed and mind easy.
and then, the sky fell.
falling through every cloud
and the air rushes by,
tumbling through the moonbeams,
heels over head or the other way around?
there's no ground, just space,
just the smell of sunset like burning wood,
just a touch of dew on newly planted grass,
just the song of the sky - surrounding.
the air's pulling the words out of my chest,
yanking the ribs away to reveal the inside.
is this what it feels like?
the world's so fine from above -
endless space, a million, million miles that don't mean a thing.
i'll stretch the night for you,
wait til it yawns and hold its jaws in my hands.
fill in the gaps with soulstuff.
curled up with your voice still in my ears -
the sky still falling, bit by bit -
snake tongues talking about fire,
bones made of malleable stardust.
all the while the sky's alive,
expanding so rapidly beneath my feet
it's dizzying;
i'll fall and it doesn't matter where.
night. stars. tethered soul.
Having your words to
hang onto like stars
You know they feel the same as the sky, draping like a blanket across my back
Eyes as black as the moon
, tethered soul
somehow
rotating softly, sighing,
Imagine - to be born again, of inky darkness -
That I can fall asleep to your voice,
even through the void - or especially -
when time is
This, now, here and now.
Perfectly balanced on the tip of my finger like
a single grain of sand suspended in an Almighty glass
and then falling
into the nighttime beneath .
lightning encircling the skull
is it
selfish or human (or no distinction at all)
is it
hubris to be so unafraid, so certain, in what can only be
unknown
you know we see the same moon.
Meteors are like gods flicking stars out of the sky,
letting them fall just to watch them.
A dizzying display of power, just to breathe and
shift the pieces of the sky.
To make it whole again, when it was never in pieces,
just in a different order.
see, this has changed me,
stitched patterns overtop the existing ones on my soul;
not to patch a hole, just to decorate it
when every word is lightning,
the intensity of knowing you knowing me; knowing us,
and fire crackling inside,
unfurling out of my chest and settling in my hands, here: fire
built of words,
you don't see me stare at the sky
when i read - processing - because a bit of me can't breathe this in -
too unbelievable - makes me feel, feel, feel
some kind of way
every kind of way
like the lightning will bind me to the earth, bind me to the trees,
shatter the ground and crack the surface of whatever's making us mortal
and that's rotating in the back of my head all day,
all day,
you could block out the sun, if i let you, but we've talked about this - -
among all these words i don't think there's a word for this;
hubris, then, again? to assume we've made something entirely new?
to assume that in the whole of the universe,
nothing
is quite like this?
is it godlike, to see the meteors fall across the sky;
is it less godlike to burn inside one?
is it godlike to not fear the fire at all? (or no distinction at all)
take thoughts, like stars, conjure more
i have words on words on words,
spoken and conjured and concentrating
in the air between us -
taking on new forms.
we're picking holes in the universe,
don't you see it unravelling?
until we see its lace-like pattern,
joining it back together in new songs.
prodding at the edges, watching
the light bend.
it's like waves pushing against my skull,
thoughts blinding and running down
my arms, escaped my skull,
buzzing to be heard.
hear it -
a soft sigh like a book closing.
it's easier to see in the dark.
we'll be here, existing between,
sharing the darkness. and
you could describe the stars
and i would listen.
souls see souls see souls
when a million moments
kaleidoscope
into a cosmic rainstorm: a soft
pitter patter
that means souls see souls see souls
so i won't choose a moment
when i've chosen them all:
woodland thrones, down to the water
and always off the path.
crushing berries between our fingers
and being sunlight, being riverflow.
short chair, tall chair,
a million ways to die and all of them
intangible under the shoplights.
watching flowers grow on
telephone boxes.
stillness in darkness.
blinking lights and its not so scary
when you're around;
autumn. and vinyl scratching
like fire against the dark.
fortune, or just us.
trees and shades and woodland creatures
spinning tales like silk across
our foreheads for everyone else
to read. a crescent moon, suspended.
lights, strangers, warm mugs.
cocooned in stories and sounds.
drinking in everything like
a last breath of air.
holding time between the palm of
our hands and stretching it -
and then we're spinning,
dizzy,
spinning in different directions.
okay. balance. a cosmic
pitter patter
of souls across space. suspended,
alive.
and still spinning.
The Edge of Exploding
I am perfectly fine. I am perfectly fine when I wake up and am surprised to find myself in an armchair, in a room coated in purple, in an inn in a town I don’t know. I am perfectly fine despite the fact that my neck and back ache from the position I’d slept in on the chair, despite the fact that I scream into my fist as soon as I find myself in a standing position.
I am perfectly fine when I find someone else’s phone on the bed, still made, amongst articles of mostly-dry clothes from yesterday. I am perfectly fine as I kneel on the floor in the bathroom and cough involuntarily, feeling water in my throat even though it’s dry.
I do not know yesterday; it never existed. It is irrelevant. It is 5:23 am and I have not slept enough and that doesn’t matter because I do not want to return to the nightmares.
Instead, I put on an impractical outfit: a cream-colored silk dress and a lace corset and tall platform white tennis shoes. No one is in the Honorary Inn lobby when I pass through it, and the only person I see on the street is a tiny old man with a tiny brown dog, and both of them bare their teeth at me in a somewhat friendly way.
It’s still dark, and there are a million more stars out here than in California. I didn’t notice them yesterday, but now they’re following me through Windthrow Point like little fairies, guiding the way towards the water and winking mischievously. I’ve found a different route, and I probably passed through a few back yards I shouldn’t have, but now I’m on a rocky outcrop overlooking the river, and it’s so beautiful. The moon’s hidden behind a cloud, so it’s just the inky dark water rolling along, splashing lightly against the rocks.
Dangerous things shouldn’t be this enticing.
Everything is so still. I don’t think the trees have moved, and the air is stagnant. It makes me crazy, makes me want to join the only other thing that’s still alive: the water, blinking back white stars and asking me to do something. But instead of going any closer, I just shut my eyes and let myself remember.
Last night, everything had been easy. It was always the right thing to do, unmistakably, to join the handsome guy on the dock, to smile at him at all the right times, to let his hand brush mine when we walked over. Maybe part of me knew he’d jump in the water, and drag me in with him. Maybe I could’ve stopped it. Maybe I want to die.
My fingers have bunched into my silk skirt, and then I’m leaning over, knees bent, hands clamped over my own mouth to suppress a scream or a wave of nausea, I’m not sure. I’d told him I loved the water, at some point. I’d told him I loved the water. Didn’t I?
I don’t know, I can’t remember, I just know I got out again. I don’t know if he pulled me out or pushed me out or I was possessed and did it on my own. I don’t know, and hug myself as hard as I can and then stomp my feet and then I flail out my arms. I don’t make a sound because I want to hear the water, so I close my eyes again and rock back and forth on my feet. And listen.
When I wake up a second time I’m on the bed in the Violet room, staring at the ceiling. There’s a lilac flower painted up there with amateur strokes, and I wonder why anybody bothered, when there’s already so much dusty purple to look at already. I’d like to say that I thought those moments by the water were a dream, but I’m fully dressed, still wearing the silk dress and corset and tennis shoes. I decide not to change.
When I descend the stairs in the lobby I don’t see Mariana, but voices are coming from a door off to the right of the counter. It’s got a little window but it’s covered over with a flowery doily so I can’t quite see in. I suddenly realize I don’t have much of a plan. I’ve slept in too much and missed my flight, though I can’t find it in me to care, and I should probably eat and collect my actual phone and book a new flight and something about having that many options on what to do causes me to stand in the middle of the lobby and stare at the doily instead.
When Mariana emerges from the side room I try and pretend that I hadn’t been standing still for five minutes and give her a friendly greeting. She eyes me for a moment before saying, “There’s someone here to see you. Well, technically two people want to see you.” She looks back at the doily door, so I do too.
“Should I…?” I start saying, but don’t actually physically move a muscle.
She gives me a little smile, mostly visible in her brown eyes, and leans against the counter, her forearms holding most of her weight. “Listen, I don’t know why you’re here, but we don’t get a lot of visitors. Usually people are either running from or to something.” I laugh, but she just raises her eyebrows at me, and I stop as if scolded. “So I told them both they couldn’t see you until I asked you first. Walker came asking for you. And then there’s a Bram Shepard who just arrived. He’s in there.” She nods at the door, and I cross my arms and look at it.
I did use the old-timey handset phone on the front desk last night, but I hadn’t called Bram.
“Right.” I approach the door, then pause to look over at Mariana. I want to thank her but the words don’t come out, so I step inside the side room.
Bram is sitting with his shoulders squeezed unnaturally close to his ears on account of the stacks of books and boxes on either side of him. This room is clearly Mariana’s office, and though there’s a desk and a chair, Bram’s perched on a bench against the wall that is presumably used more for storage than sitting. A bookshelf against the opposite wall sags under the weight of various tomes, trinkets, and stacks of paper. A small collection of potted plants wilt in what little morning light filters through a small circular window behind the desk.
Bram’s wearing his regular button up and chinos. He reminds me of business; he is all at once both comfortingly familiar and desperately unwanted. He looks up at me with a strange, soft expression, and I stay in the doorway, not sure what kind of expression I’m making, judging the tiny room from quite a height, thanks to the platform shoes. “What are you doing here?” My voice is flat, and I’m actually surprised that I’m not surprised that he’s here.
He squeezes his way off the bench, careful not to knock anything over, though his body in the small office isn’t really any less obtrusive standing than sitting. “Listen, first of all, I’m sorry again.” I scoff, and when he shakes his head I notice that his hair’s more disheveled than usual, blonde curls out of place like he’s been sleeping or raking a hand through them. “Seriously. I didn’t know Darian was going to be here too. Now, are you alright?”
My lips curl into a familiar smile. “Of course I’m alright? Bored out of my mind, sure. But there’s no reason you need to be here.” I jut out a hip. “Why are you here?”
Bram’s expression flattens, which is something I’m familiar with. It’s like his face muscles just shut down, and right now all that’s left is the tiniest crease between his brows. “Your mom called me multiple times, telling me it was an emergency. She said you needed someone out here, but that she couldn’t go. She wouldn’t tell me what happened, just asked me to come. I didn’t know what to think.”
“And you took her word for it?” My tone is unnecessarily cruel, but I can’t help the simmering anger. It’s such a familiar feeling, to be pitied by my mother but never enough for her to actually do anything about it. My throat closes when I think of the manic state I’d been in last night, frantically praying that she’d pick up the home phone. And when she finally had I didn’t know how to explain what was wrong, and I know now that my greatest mistake was having the hope that she might understand anyway.
Bram just looks at me. “I did. Masie, if you tell me to leave I will. But…”
“But what?”
“But I’m trying to help.”
I tip back my head and bark out a laugh, then back out into the lobby. I’m sick of this shit. “Oh, that’s funny. I didn’t realize I was a princess waiting to be saved. Tell me, dear Knight, where is your trusty steed?” I’m back in the center of the lobby, arms raised, staring at Bram through the doorway of the office and aware that Mariana is also watching. Good, the more the merrier.
Bram exits the office, lips pinched. He’s never one for big emotions, but I can tell he’s holding back, reining it in. I don’t want him to; I want him to scream so I have an excuse to scream back. Instead, he says evenly, “Fine. Of course. You don’t have to tell me anything. But just so you know, I put up with your bullshit all the time. I know you so well, Masie, I know how you write and how you think and how you always want to be the loudest personality in the room. I know that you don’t do research before meeting people because then you don’t think it’s your fault if you don’t get along, I know that you wanted that movie deal so fucking bad, I know that you wear the absolute craziest outfits when you’re the saddest. Do you think I don’t know when you’re on the edge of exploding?”
We’re staring at each other, and Mariana is the only person in the room breathing. That was quite a grand monologue, so, in typical me fashion, I don’t think I surprise either of us when I stalk out of the Honorary Inn, both fists clenched.
--
(previous chapter)
pt 11: https://www.theprose.com/post/767501/dragged-back
Dragged Back
When I was seven, I thought I’d drowned.
The thing about water is that you don’t know when it’s going to try and kill you until it’s too late. Until you’re head’s under and the current’s dragging you some kind of direction and your lungs are burning for air. And you don’t know which way is up, because once you’re under there is no up, just a permanent state of un-being.
The Clements family visited their lake house once every year, for about two weeks at a time, depending on when was the best time for the eldest daughter, Rachael, a young and talented Broadway actress. The other child, me, had more free time than she knew what to do with, and was not ever consulted on any decisions.
Still, I loved the lake house as a child. It felt magical. Not because of the crystal-clear lake or the extravagant house, but because it was two weeks, every year, with Rachael. Everything that happened within the bounds of that house, that lake, still feels like a fairytale. Just remember that not all fairytales have happy endings.
On the day that it happened, it had been the end of summer, some time in late July. The air had been hot and buggy, and I recall quite vividly that the whole day felt like it moved in slow motion, as if the air was so thick that it took effort to move a limb through it. The adults, my mother and my grandmother, had stayed on the back porch, day-drinking and failing at whatever DIY hobby had caught Grandma’s fancy that year. I believe that particular year it had been macramé.
From the back porch, the grassy ground sloped down, spotted with prickly plants that I knew to avoid, and led to the rocks at the edge of the water. I knew every inch of the grass between the water and the lake house; I had it all charted in my head. As usual, I’d been playing with Rachael, directing her in some stage play I’d written, letting her improvise scenes and songs since she was, after all, the lead. I used to spend all year long as a child, in between school and gymnastics and swimming lessons, thinking of stories we could act out standing on those rocks.
It being quite humid, Rachael had taken to lying on a towel in the sun, and had told me to act out something for her. She was eleven then, and beginning to think that she was old enough to be adult; I’d seen her tasting Mom’s mixed drinks at the house that morning, when no one else had been looking. She had grown taller, too, which made her look slimmer and more fashionable in her brand-new two-piece suit. Grandma told her every day that week that she should be a model, and when she caught me looking on, the old witch had pursed her lips at me and said my face was too wide and my eyes were too dim.
So Rachael had been kicking her legs in the air, lying on her stomach and looking at me expectantly. I’d been giddy with the idea of performing for her, and had shouted up at the porch, “I’m going to sing! I’m going to sing!”
To which dear old Mother had called back, “Please don’t, darling.” Grandma probably said something too, and I’m sure I’m lucky I didn’t hear it.
I’d perched my bare feet on the rocks, introduced myself and begun the scene, and launched into song. Rachael had giggled and clapped along, Mom had gone inside to refill her drink no doubt, and Grandma had stood up, her back hunched and her wig perfectly immaculate despite the humidity. I cannot recall what she’d said, only that she’d thrown a bottle over the side of the porch, letting it shatter in the grass, upsetting Rachael and successfully interrupting my unpracticed performance.
I’d been so startled, in fact, that my sweaty feet had slipped on the rocks at the edge of the lake, and suddenly I found myself crossing the boundary between realities: air and water. And while, at seven, I had technically done ‘swimming’ before, I had never successfully done it without the watchful eye of an instructor or the aid of some kind of floatation device. Which is why, I’ve been told, I fell right in, plummeted to the bottom like a sack of stones, did not kick my feet or even try to save myself, and even had the bad fortune to knock my head on a rock on the way down. I was told I was a disaster to save, caused the nice man next door quite a scare, the way I fought and coughed all that water up on him.
Grandma told me from her hospice bed when I was twenty-two that she didn’t think I wanted to be saved that day. I didn’t come and visit her after that.
Mom uses that story like a party favor, an anecdote to get people laughing and in a good mood during investment dinners and events of the like.
I remember it like this: my stomach dropped, and my toes curled against the rocks, and even before I hit the water I knew what was about to happen, and my eyes caught on the sun above me, blinding. The water paralyzed me, and there was a sharp pain in my right temple, and I had a thought that this is what it would be like to be caught in a washing machine, churning and being thrown head-over-heels. I didn’t want my eyes open but I couldn’t shut them, and everything was dark, seaweed or fish brushed against my legs, making me scream out the last of the air in my lungs. When something finally grabbed me I thought it was God, and this was the end, and that was only confirmed when I was dragged back into the light and I thought the sun was going to swallow me whole, because that’s where I thought Heaven must be, when I thought there was such a place. I had fought then, because no seven-year-old wants to die.
I’ve always loved the water, but since then, I won’t go in it. Not ever.
I find the Honorary Inn, somehow, stumble up the stairs to the Violet room. The walls are crawling with images of waves, but I know they’re all in my head. The rock in my hand--phone--doesn’t feel right, and I realize it’s not. It’s Walker’s phone, which means I can’t call anyone because I’m not a freak that memorizes phone numbers. There’s still water in my mouth, and I retch into the sink. Tear off my wet clothes.
I feel like I’m going to throw up again, and the room is too dark but I can’t stand the light. At some point I wrap myself in a kimono and find the landline in the empty lobby, and there’s only one phone number I know by heart.
When I hang up, I slink back upstairs, tears dripping off my chin, and I’m too afraid to lie down and my hands won’t stop shaking, and I hate being awake but I’m afraid of being swallowed by the sun. I scrub my arms and hair with towels until my skin is pink. I curl up in a ball in the armchair. Force my eyes closed. Pray I don’t dream of anything at all.
--
(next chapter)
pt 12: https://www.theprose.com/post/768088/the-edge-of-exploding
--
(previous chapter)
pt 10: https://www.theprose.com/post/766726/all-my-ghosts
squish
you've dreamed it all before,
poor nightwalker,
you've dreamed it all before.
the days and nights spent writhing,
the marker on the wall.
you've dreamed it all up again,
dear headthinker,
you'll daydream til you scream.
those stories inked on your eyelids,
blinking reality in-between.
you've dreamed it all before,
young skychaser,
you've thought it all before.
you don't know what you're made for,
you don't know who you are.
All My Ghosts
In the end, I decide not to meet up with a random man I just met in the middle of the night. It wouldn't really have been out of character for me, but I do have enough self-preservation to realize that in this small town it is probably not the best move.
However, I do not have enough self-preservation to resist the gravitational pull of finding a bar with alcohol and music and bright lights to get lost in.
I had spent the afternoon by the river, which isn't actually too far away from the inn. Mariana had pointed me in the right direction--down the road until you see the rusting pickup truck, past the house painted baby blue, and through an archway of trees to the dirt road. From there, it’s just a view of the indomitable water, unobstructed. Grass, trees, rocks, water, all of it. I’d found a bench and sat with my laptop, my fingers hitting keys even though the sun’s glare on my screen rendered my words unreadable. I still haven’t looked at any of it, but I’m sure none of it’s any good, or even comprehensible.
And now all of that is irrelevant, because I’m in some tiny, tiny little bar and everything is sticky and I’m glad I brought cute outfits (all of my outfits are cute) but they’re also totally wasted on this very lame, small bar. I wish Jamie was here, at least, to tell me my matching top and skirt look cute. I haven’t talked to Jamie, I bet he’s at a club that’s a thousand times more fun than this right now.
“Come here often?” When I blink the fluorescent sign I’d been staring at out of my vision, it’s none other than Walker standing beside me, one arm on the bar counter. He’s smirking.
“You wanna buy me a drink?” I ask, facing forward again.
He’s silent for a moment. “You didn’t want to see what I was going to show you?” he asks. Even a few drinks in I can decipher his tone: it’s I’m not disappointed because I’m a man and men don’t feel emotions.
I wave down the bartender and point at my empty glass. “Walker, if that is your real name, I’ma let you in on a secret…” I lean in nice and close, and my eyes flutter closed when our faces are only inches apart. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning and I’d rather not be chopped up and murdered before then.” Then I pull back, watching his face. His dark eyes don’t give much away, other than a faint amusement.
“I was going to take you on a ghost tour,” he tells me after ordering a beer. He still hasn’t sat down, and is just standing there with his probably nicely-toned chest beside me like a wall. Like a warm wall. I pull a piece of hair off the back of my neck; sweaty.
“Ghost tour?” I scoff, but that sounds very fun. It sounds like something Bram would like, too.
“Nyx owns the local paranormal museum-slash-shop. She gets decent business, but visitors love her ghost tours.” The bartender has gotten both of us our drinks, and Walker takes a long swig of his. “Sorry I thought you’d be interesting, I guess.”
His mess of dark hair is in his eyes, and I tip my drink down my throat. “It’s still a no.”
He shrugs. “Well, if you’re leaving tomorrow, I should at least give you your shirt back.” He pushes off the counter, and I look at him. “Coming?”
Headache not quite formed but definitely in the works, I slap some money on the counter--probably too much--and follow him. Outside, it’s cold, so cold I can feel it in my eyes. “You don’t want your shirt back do you?" I ask him. "Hey, maybe we can trade.” His legs aren’t that much longer than mine but he walks very fast.
Walker breathes out of his nose: a laugh, and slows down a little to keep pace with me. “You think I’d look good in your tiny golden crop top?”
“Depends what you have to show off,” I tell him, gesturing at his midsection.
He raises one eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” It makes me grin.
I’m kind of tipsy and would like to be more drunk, if I’m honest. I don’t want to have to think about tomorrow. I’m not thinking about tomorrow. I’m focusing on Walker, who’s handing me my shirt back.
“You should see the water at night,” Walker says. He’s leaning against the cafe’s doorframe, looking all mysterious. I love a mystery.
“Ok,” I put on my best I-challenge-you face. “Let’s see it.”
He laughs, and I’m learning the way that his mouth slants. “Ok,” he agrees, and again he’s leading me through the empty streets, stopping at the inn first to drop off my shirt and then off to the river.
It’s not the same spot that I’d been earlier. It’s further down, out where the sky is so black it’s heavy and the buildings across the way look like paper shadows. There’s a dock or a pier or whatever you call a wooden thing you stand on. I like the way the moon dances on the water, but I’m even more mesmerized by the stars. Fireballs in the sky.
“You’ll break your neck staring up at the sky for too long,” Walker tells me.
“What did you want me to look at?” I pull my chin down, and find him looking at me, dark eyes intense. He’s closer than I’d thought.
“Me,” he breathes, and his hand comes up and wraps a finger around a piece of my hair. My heart goes all haywire, I mean my body, I mean does it matter? He’s very distracting. “I don’t want you to go, not yet.” Walker says this very quietly, his gaze on my lips the whole time.
I’d been waiting for him to kiss me, but now I put a hand on his chest to keep him away. “You’re supposed to be the mysterious brooding guy who never ever reveals his feelings unless it’s raining or it’s too late,” I inform him.
He glances at the sky, and the skin on his neck is stubbly and nice looking. “Not raining." His voice is low. "Is it too late?”
“For what?”
“For this,” he says, and suddenly he’s holding up two phones: one of them mine and the other must be his. My brain’s slow to process, and I watch him set them both down on the dock. When he straightens up again, he steps closer, and my body buzzes as his arms close around me, it’s that fear plus excitement that makes your vision go blurry.
Then: cold. I’m frozen, my ears feel funny and my mouth’s full of water.
Everything is dark, and Walker is gone, and flies are buzzing in my head, and cold, cold, ocean.
My head surfaces, my gasping just as loud as his laughter. My feet kick underwater, trying to launch myself out, the fuzzy warm drunk feeling gone. My vision is dark, all I can do is focus on air, not water. Burning nose.
“I got you.” Laughing. Arms locking against my body, cage. Black water, night sky. Breathe. “Masie?”
“Get me out!” Words barely make it out of my lips, teeth chattering. Flies buzzing. Sea monsters grabbing at my legs somewhere.
Something drags me out of the water, and I am too weak to resist. I am screaming in my brain, and I find my feet but they’re unsteady.
“Masie? You ok?”
It’s not Bram’s voice, it’s not anyone’s. I remember to reach down and snatch up my phone. Water everywhere. And I run, even though I don’t know the way.
--
(next chapter)
pt 11: https://www.theprose.com/post/767501/dragged-back
--
(previous chapter)
pt 9: https://www.theprose.com/post/764864/pages-of-nostalgia
veridical paradoxes
the way they
twist words in their fingers
like a game of cat's cradle ,
and scatter
the letters back out ,
they make you remember
a feeling
that you'd forgotten ,
overlooked
.
and spill it across your tongue like nightmare ink ,
tortured words too ill to speak ,
to make themselves
relive it again ,
and find solace
in bleeding their heart out .
to make tangible
the intangible ,
to give reason
to the unreasonable ,
to cross out their heart
and re-write it in chalk lines
in a shape
a little easier to read .
to breathe .
and confess it all to you .
and hide .