Surfeit sans sic-squalid spoiled sundered smorgasbord squandered serenity
Let me preface this synopsis of self with a poetic epistle (hopefully such reasonably nonrhyming license acceptable videre licet, this non-friction category) before delving into the heart of this bipedal hominid, the apotheosis sans earth, wind and fire depleting air supply and whip lashing the apathy annihilating will to live, thus forever suspending me as still thirteen and thirsting to taste and touch a youth untouched by fiery passion – so:
Despite three score
plus five birthdays elapsed
since exiting the birth canal
uber cataclysmic neurological
eruption would parlay
with forces of destruction
pell mell to rent asunder
psyche, an internal maelstrom
wrenched self worthiness -
pitting mine mien as blunder
bulldozing with razorblades
former childhood's end
wondrous glee raising suicide
quiet riotous ambition, a painfully slow
(self starvation) mine inexorable ride,
which chronological frieze kept hog-tied
and hide bound this one grown male
dredging haunting spectre – where
to be gratefully dead – within Elysian dale
youngest of me two female progeny
segued emotionally troublesome
twenty plus five year old
today April twenty fifth
two thousand twenty four,
cuz these lovely bones
triggered flashback to wretched tears
sans insidious roiling
jagged stone shredding/
thwarting desire to lyft motive to be alive
shockwaves extant to this day -
no matter long since
recovered from nose-dive
dog gone emotional, psychological
and social repercussions
hound me present mental state
indelible permanent scars
(per anxiety, herky jerky,
hokey pokey, panicky,
quirky tic) seem never to abate
try as I might to shake free
from the riptide affects
that drowned this boy to grow
he experiences an especially
perilous remembrance
of things past regarding
abysmal infernal woe
when thee second punim
o thine two lovely offspring
passed that milestone age
with nary a hint how her papa felt
life locked up within
his abysmal agonizing stage
impossible to forgive permanent harm
inflicted not only on self but searing pain
my late mother and
then living octogenarian father
whose angst this dada insight re: did gain
from bringing forth progeny,
which years eclipsed
at break neck speed,
whereby each special daughter
evincing greater sturdiness
akin to hardy weed
bound to surpass their dear ole dad
permanently branded with ghost
of Christmases past for never knowing
thee potential that burned black toast
and hunger pains even to this day frequently
blithely ignored as if still callous
tempted, lured and baited by hand of death
this grown man wished inxs to kiss.
Social anxiety (incorporating the alphabet soup of physiological symptoms i.e. clammy palms, heart palpitation, nausea, vertigo, et cetera) erupted to rent my psyche asunder and forcefully endearing themselves to my being (like dasher, dancer, Prancer, vixen, comet, cupid, dinner and Blitzen) with most every visit to college cafeterias, (an unpleasant effect explaining termination from the umpteen universities i matriculated), especially when hungry hordes (like madding crowds swelling the sea of Muslims practically stampeding their way en route the Hajj) clamored to be fed sustenance or spiritual succor respectively.
Never did this liberal minded scrivener get trampled underfoot, but he experienced physical manifestations entailing great discomfort probably on par with any devout pilgrimage to the holy shrine of Mecca.
Within the labyrinth of this mortal being i.e. christened matthew scott harris, hid unseen live, googly-eyed, earth-linked, mailer daemons that resounded with a quiet riot chorus of their unheard yahoo kindling the trip wire of damned perspiration, laceration (stinging tips of metallic whips and chains) induced hallucination prodding sphincter muscle to go into overdrive vis a vis via defecation, (irritable bowel ran rampant) creating one wreck of a human abomination kept in check from any unsuspecting observer.
This general figurative broad-brush stroke pertaining to the collective soul wrenching episodes does an injustice to panic attacks.
Best for me to winnow thru the quagmire of countless instances to evoke emotional explosion in an effort to engender comprehension, fixation, interrogation (pardon the hyperbolic exaggeration fueling this assay wantonly craving super) layman preservation, than zeroing in on a singular instance.
Little effort required for me to dial back mental chronology and pluck one generic panic attach festooned with the usual attendant coterie of kindling internal microscopic killing machinations swaggering like hotmail fresh off the field of a winning team.
Meal times at college (particularly with the madding crowd of voraciously famished coed undergraduates), the most frequent settings outbursts generated feverishly essentially annihilating any ambition to enjoy a normal peaceful repast (to satiate hunger), the most common environment envision a generic college cafeteria.
About twenty years ago (two decades spanning mine some total of fifty six birthdays plodding through the pernicious plots per me world wide web) represents the most recent non-voluntary foray into the field of dreaded descent into the domain of all out internal combustion, whereby attrition into no mans land of wretched undulating spasms quaking ole matthew knocked immunization generally enjoyed clinging assiduously to hibernation, meditation, self actualization as self sedation.
Eyelids now temporarily closed to re-envision the nada so salient salad days whence the feeding time instantaneously transformed into frantic frenzy at Kutztown university. While most all other student feasted on the ordinary industrial chow, i felt the grippe ketchup and override excruciating hunger. Adrenaline coursed thru this measly dry mouthed body (starving to savor the institutional haute cuisine.
No sooner did this then rather bony gluteus maximus became situated at the table (often whereby a quick exit could be made in the predictable panic stricken outcome that pierced and hammered me with gut wrenching agony), the medley of organic constriction of throat re: named near asphyxiation, furious pounding of ma poor heart churning out hormonal secretion sans flight or fight, strong sensation sans regurgitation (despite the likelihood my bowels recently purged per diarrhea courtesy of irritable gastrointestinal stress), disallowed even one morsel to appease thine palette.
Much as waste not want not the coda, ethos, general integrity keeping afloat my dogma, that credo went out the window (with or without the baby and bathwater – plugged pulled so no infant drowned, nor any other animal harmed in the making of this mindful video), the tray of uneaten food left for an employee to discard.
Complete discombobulating disorientation (in tandem with the tried and true trademark tell tale signs of tumultuous ferocious fracas re: Tony the tiger witnessed personal pandemonium, which violent trigger, nonetheless did offer a scant few minutes to gather peanut butter and jelly sandwiched haphazardly slap dashed together, whereby to escape this jam.
Cumulative episodes whence tumultuous shell shocked warring faction repeatedly played itself and affecting escape from this perilous perdition.
The shoals of home (which appeared sweeter than ever) specifically sighted when sitting with pangs of stomach churning aches to eat instead delivered a sentence whereby this anguished author felt himself severely lashed and slavishly held within thine fragile self witnessed withdrawal from campus life (for the umpteenth time) and hence avoidance became the coping mechanism.
Fast forward to the present. Now a cornucopia of pharmaceutical medications keep in check (akin to a mate) and put a lid on susceptibility toward chaotic sensation run amok.
This collective soul (whose esprit de corps rose from thine Heiress house of the rising sun) in fits and starts finally seems closer to psychological nirvana.
Now, now longer does a led zeppelin manacle this Renaissance man from the culture club. He scales the Ashbury heights of ecstasy via pharmacological panacea. He feels indomitable emotional strength to haul in the oats of a misspent youth.
The Last of Us
When we were young, we were immortal. Always eager to try something new, even if it was dangerous or could kill us. We lived our lives with an unmatched vibrancy only equal to each other: fearless, carefree, and inquisitive. We had an entire life ahead of us. We were untouchable—a rat pack, born together, never leaving each other’s sides except to chase our dreams, and we always had each other’s backs except when we slept.
Heath, the most musically talented of us, shared a room with Sigmund, who should have been an engineer with his gifts of foresight and planning. Tasha, our only sister, self-appointed stylist, and inspiring chef, shared her room with Samuel, who hated his first name, and after many years of badgering us about it eventually forced us to call him S. He was the most sensitive of the pack, and the most allergy stricken. He spent most of his early summers avoiding the outside during peak pollen season, which dampened it for all of us, but with the advent of better medication, he started to venture out as we grew up. Then there was I, Touré, the one who avoided wool, hated handshakes but longed for a hug from time to time. I had my room, and kind of preferred it that way, as I needed more space than the rest of them to grow and to feel. I was deeply complicated, but more emotionally mature than the others, and when push came to shove, I easily had the thickest skin of the group. I kept all of us together throughout the good times, but especially the difficult ones. Even during the Great White Hurricane in the winter of '88 when I lost a part of myself to frostbite, it was I who kept everyone relaxed in the hospital despite the excruciating pain of losing two and a half fingers.
We grew up differently than most, and I am grateful for it. I want to say that we were lucky, yet I never did feel the asphalt of a public schoolyard, so the conclusiveness in such a statement would be simply negligent. I can say that growing up attending school from home, had many perks, most of which would have never been available with a free education from the state. We taught ourselves many days when our parents were away. Our substitute was the forest. Many of our classroom hours were spent outside on the grass, and in the leaves, among the wildest parts of life, where we learned about the trees and the insects. We learned about ourselves. The woods stirred up our imaginations into a whirlwind of bursting creativity, untamed wonder, and unmatchable confidence.
Heath enjoyed listening to the birds every morning until lunch while Tasha ate every berry in sight to ruin hers. Frequently, she left little for the rest of us to enjoy, and the majority that remained were found in the discard pile made up mostly of the poisonous ones Sigmund warned her about. When he was medicated, S, did his best to have a good time for the sake of the group and eventually grew to love the flowers. He always described his fondness for the delicate fragrances hidden deep in their pedals. His favorite, was a white gardenia because it reminded him of the fresh oranges from Florida, a place he always wanted to visit, but sadly never did. Sigmund was usually on his back observing everything above us. He called out new shapes in the clouds and confirmed the identities of Heath's birds for him when they flew over. He enjoyed making up stories with his unique "cloud characters" that took on impossible odds, covered vast distances, and searched for love in all the right places. Entertained for hours, we never forgot his imaginative stories.
I learned a little differently than the rest. My body became a vessel through which I felt everything inside and out. When the breeze whipped through my hair I was reminded of freedom, and to flow like the wind instead of against it. When a ladybug crawled across my bare feet, I became mindful of how even the tiniest things can make an impressive impact. The rough bark of the oaks that lined our driveway felt like a hardened cloak of armor with a highly important secret to protect. I imagined they hid decades of stories in their creases, and I often wondered what the trees would share, if they could speak. I compared those trees to humans, who similarly have protective layers around them hindering their ability to share their authentic selves. I wondered how the world would be if everyone were more open and honest. My favorite feeling though, was the mountain water from Beaver Creek. I always splashed it into my face whenever we passed through, even when it was its coldest. It was brimming with its trademarked healing powers, always cooling my soul to the bones. I often dreamed of jumping in a lake filled with that same water, and for some reason, I wanted to drink my way through it, while I swam fully submerged, as if I would heal from the inside out or become one with its energy. Those days, when it was simplest when we did not need to care about the dangers of the world around us, and the sun determined our bedtimes, were among the best years of our lives.
It's cliche to say, but we really did grow up fast, continuing to seek all that the world offered up to us, and before we knew it a man’s voice began announcing our names from a clipboard among the few other homeschoolers attending the Class of '77. That day, standing on the football field of the Middlebury Union High School, our black caps were flung high into the sky reaching for Sigmund clouds, and our childhood floated away just like them. It wasn't long before we each ventured out to see the world in our ways with our diplomas tightly gripped in our hands. Like most siblings, we too began spending less time together, as we each chased our separate interests into adulthood.
As usual, our over-achieving sister found her calling first. Tasha was talented in almost everything, but had a particular knack for the ability to decorate, and settled on becoming an interior designer. Though she tried, she never made it to become a top chef, like in the shows she religiously followed, but she will always go down as the top chef of the family. Heath was right behind her with his choice, which wasn't hard for him as he naturally dove headfirst into music. Though he never got famous for it, he had an amazing ear for talent and did very well for himself as a sound mixer and music producer locally. Unlike the others, Sigmund never went to school but attended the university of life in its place. After a few years traveling abroad, he settled on becoming a self-taught photographer with an eye for everything beautiful, especially a girl. He immediately fell in love with his first model, Iris, and they quickly eloped in Paris in the summer of '82. After the wedding, we lost him to her in the first couple of years of their relationship, as she was his entire focus, and had hold of his heart. Then there was S. He developed a nose for solving crimes, and after five years at Norwich University in VT, he graduated with a degree in criminology, and became a police officer immediately after. Despite his younger, more sensitive years, he quickly grew into himself as an audacious bloodhound, and just like Sigmund, but without the girl, he married the force. I took the longest path and perhaps the hardest, but eventually got around to figuring it all out after many soul-searching and somewhat questionable years. I would rather not explain the details, but the spiritual realm reached out and grabbed me one day, and I knew that I was meant to become a massage therapist with plans to later add a yoga instructor to my resume. I started as a spiritual advisor first because I wanted to touch the minds, bodies, and spirits of the whole world. It suited my life perfectly and made me whole. From those early days on we chased our careers, followed our hearts, some of us found love, but we all experienced fulfilling lives.
Like all who came before us, and all who would eventually follow behind, the years had piled on, and our clocks ticked closer to midnight in the eldest part of our lives.
Though we had always kept in touch, usually visiting a couple of times a year for holidays and birthdays, we eventually found ourselves further apart than we had ever imagined. I cannot attest to when, but somewhere along the road of life there was a day of singularity for me. I finally looked over my shoulder to examine where my footsteps had traveled and where they were heading. After a while, I concluded that we were not perpetual beings, but instead, without question we all were heading into the cosmos to each become a tiny new star. That day of reflection came just in time, and because of it, our visits happened more frequently, especially as the five of us soon started fading away. One after another, we began saying goodbye to each other, which was something that had never crossed our minds we would have to endure. Something Sigmund or even S. could not have predicted. We thought we would live forever, we thought we would die together. We never anticipated having to attend each other’s funerals, but we did.
Heath passed first. His death was sudden, but we found out months later, that he was hiding his decline from everyone, and instead had been over-compensating for years. As it is commonplace to say, I wish I had known earlier, so I could have spent more time with him before he left us. In retrospect, he never was a man who wanted special attention, especially for a disability. So, he died his way, and for that, I appreciate and love him more. The next to leave us was Sigmund. A huge surprise again, and a loss that tore the three of us apart the most. He seemed to most invincible to us, and we never truly recovered after his passing. He was such a stable leader in the group, never to complain about the appointed position he had no say in, but he was the one that we all relied upon to help guide us forward and lead the way. Without him, we had lost sight of ourselves, quickly becoming lost. It was only two years later during the peak of the flu season, when I had to bury Tasha and S., myself. It happened within the same month of December. What was once my favorite time of the year had quickly become a month of mourning and pain, and thus stayed that way for every subsequent year after that I survived without them. It seemed to rain all thirty-one days for them as if the world stopped to cry for their loss. I wept an additional thirty-one after realizing my family, my brothers, and my sister were all gone for good.
All that is left, after my siblings have vanished into the ether, is I, an empty shell of a man who is held together by a thick membrane of connective tissue, loose skin, and faint memories helping to glue everything in place. My bedsheets have me wrapped into a tightly wound death burrito with an extra layer of expired meat, soggy lettuce, and no Picante sauce inside. Each day, I long for the soft touches of the hospice nurse during her hourly rounds. It's the only touch I have left. I don't know her name, but I know she hums a special tune that makes my skin dance a little longer. It reminds me of Heath and his melodies and I find pleasure in the warmth it brings me. I have no one else to share my life with, nor stories to burden onto them in hopes they would learn a valuable lesson or never forget the life that my siblings and I had lived. I realize now that when I used to observe old people talking so much about their lives, they were reliving their favorite memories, but they also were trying to preserve them in someone's mind, so after they pass they hopefully would be remembered for just one more day.
My engine is on idle, and my exhaust fumes are creeping heavily throughout the room. I know the oxygen will eventually displace from here leaving only toxic fumes, but I would never know when it happens. So, I wait. I lay here as fearless as I once was, as we all were so long ago, and I am left only with the feelings of what my memories used to be. Without knowing what lies beyond that closed door that awaits my turning hand, I eagerly invite what will soon be the final chapter of my life, death. As if it is the final song in my concerto of life, the sold-out crowd of thousands of hairs on my skin reach up like extended arms, eagerly rising to meet the distant echoes of my siblings who sing beside me on the same stage. Their voices vibrate intensely through my body. I know they are here, and a calmness fills me. I grin with hope. The rat pack will soon be whole again. Their presence invites me onward; to leave my vessel; They soothe me as I begin the same journey they did. Similar to S.'s flowers wilting after an autumn frost; my hairs wither and flatten while my body's warmth radiates out of me. I begin to close our book of life for good, with me as the final chapter, who wrote the last words, and I place my author signature on the inside cover, for someone else to read.
Remember my kin, for they were so many things; So many experiences, and they lived with such a vibrant love for the world around us. Remember Heath for his beautiful tunes on the balcony during the summers overlooking the lake. Remember Sigmund for all of his wild quests he took his characters on, and how he was gracious enough to let us come along for the ride. Remember Tasha for she filled our hearts and our stomachs with every part of her very soul. Remember Samuel for his sensitive side, and the poems that explained it, especially when he read them to us on the days we couldn't go out because of his allergy "condition." Finally, remember me, the one who had felt the entirety of a lifetime, and barred the scars to prove it. I can only hope that I touched the lives of many, healed the hearts of a few, and inspired at least one.
I, Touré was the last of us.
©2023 Chris Sadhill
Part 25
I turned to look at him, not wanting to look away from the pretty scene in the garden before me but it was rude to not watch someone when they were talking to you.
“We found you on the floor after the curtain rod fell on you, but how did you get there? Why were you over there? Was something wrong? Were you looking for someone?”
I wanted to see the stars, I was trying to get to the window so I could see them. I would have walked over and moved the curtain aside, but I was having trouble doing that. I looked down at my legs, I wondered if they were any better now. Will I be able to walk tonight? I still wanted to see the stars, and I wanted to go and get some things from the rooms of my parents and uncles and cousins and some things from my brother’s side of our room.
I drew my arms further into the sleeves of my father's to-big sweater. It wasn't what I asked for this morning, but I was certainly very happy to be wearing it. It felt so formatting, almost like he was still here and giving me a little hug. It made me want to gather things from all the rest of my family even more. I wanted to be surrounded by them in whatever way I could be now, to be with them even if it was just with their things.
“Princess?”
“I want to sleep in my parent's room.”
Lionel went quiet, a perturbed look on his face. We stared at each other for a while in silence, the snow falling past the window casting little dancing shadows into the rest of the room.
“Are you sure?” was all he asked, worried about painting his features. “The last time… it made your condition worse the last time.”
“I want to be in their room.” I curled up more into my father’s pale green sweater. Lioenl’s eyes bored me as he considered it.
“Ok. Let's go get you set up in there then, it's about time for you to take a little nap anyway. Are you done with your tea?”
I nodded softly, letting him take the little teacup away from me and set it back down on the tray that sat on the table to my left. He gently picked me up and took me into the hall.
“Please fetch the head of the house staff, the princess would like to sleep in her majesty’s quarters tonight, so we need to make some arrangements,” he spoke to one of the guards that stood by the door, I recognized him. He was one of the ones who often sparred with my cousins during their sword lessons.
He nodded and rushed off, leaving the other young man to guide Lionel down the long hall, up the curving staircase, and towards my parent's room.
The door must have been locked, because instead of entering he helped me sit into one of the hallway’s chairs as we waited for whoever he had sent to be fetched.
“Princess.” He was speaking quietly again, I must have gone into a little daze again. “If it gets too much, just let me know. It won't be any trouble to get you back to the guest room where you’ve been staying.”
I nodded to show I understood and he smiled again.
We had to wait for a little while, it felt much longer but perhaps that was just because I longed to be in my parent's room again.
Sometimes, when my brother and I were much smaller, our mother and father would let us sleep with them in their massive bed. We would spend all night curled up against them, falling asleep listening to their voices rumble in their chests as they spoke of the day's events or told us little stories. We would wake up to our mother curling his fingers through our hair and our father’s golden eyes gazing at us like we were the world.
Their room was a dark gray with accents of greens and gold. Mother always had vases filled to bursting with flowers and herbs and whatever other greenery he could find all around their quarters. Their bed was made of black wood with four posters carved with dragons curling around them as they climbed towards the canopy at the top. The canopy was made of wood too, with visions of mountains and the heavens carved and painted into the underside of them, so you could see the pictures when lying in bed. In the summer light, gauzy fabric in pale colors would hang and drape over the canopy top and down the sides, making it seem like it floated in the middle of the room as if any breeze would sway the swaths of curtains around the bed. In the winter heavier curtains would be drawn tightly around the bed at night to keep it warm and cozy on the inside.
“Hello again Sir Lionel.'' The sound of a stiff voice came from down the hall as the guard from earlier returned and took his place on the other side of me. The man he brought with him was Clahadore. He served under my Uncle Daro, who was in charge of all things relating to the palace's upkeep and staffing. I suppose with Uncle Daro gone, Clahadore had taken charge of his duties.
“Clahadore, The princess wishes to”
“To sleep in their majesty’s chambers, yes I am aware.”
I didn't have much interaction with Clahadore, but I can remember I never really liked him. He didn't like my Uncles and I think that was why, though if he was always this standoffish then perhaps that was another reason.
“Brilliant, the door please then.”
“Would it not be better for her higHer Highnessep in her chambers?”
“The princess has requested to sleep in their Majesties', I'm sure you can understand why a grieving child would wish to do so, yes?”
“She isn't a child, she's the princess of this empire. She should sleep in her chambers until the master chambers are empty and set up properly for her.”
“She is a child, regardless of status.” Lionel gritted out, gesturing something to the two guards next to me, “Besides that, the chambers of the royal family are not to be disturbed. Maintained, but not changed. I believe we discussed this already?”
“We have.”
“Brilliant.”
The two guards next to me hadn't moved when Lionel motioned to them, instead, they were glancing back and forth between the two as they argued.
“The door then.” Lionel waved at the door behind him
“No, I think not.”
“Pardon?”
“You are from here Sir Lionel so I shall pardon you. Around here rulers do not just move into their predecessor's quarters before they are cleaned out and prepared. The princess should remain in her rooms until these are ready.”
“Clahadore, unlock their master's chambers.”
I hadn't seen Lionel mad before, but I think that if this goes on any further then I will soon.
“I outrank you here and I will not allow such a -”
“I would like to sleep in my parent's room tonight.” I finally spoke up, causing both men to whip their heads around to me.
“Princess I will have these rooms ready for you by the end of the week, until then-”
“I don't want them changed.” I stared at him, a frown pulling at my mouth “I want to sleep in my parent's room.”
“Well, I-”
“She outranks you here Klahadore” Lionel was grinning wide as he once again gestured towards the door, “So please do unlock the door from her highness.”
Clahadore set his jaw, glaring daggers at Lionel, before turning and bowing to me as he went to do just that.
Lionel picked me up and walked me into my parent's room, as we passed Klahadore I reached out causing him to stop.
“Yes, princess?” Clahadore’s smile was sickly sweet and seemed too tight for his face.
“The key please.”
“Pardon?”
“I don't want any of my family’s rooms touched, none of their things. So I want the key.”
I would need it to get into their rooms later to gather some treasures and things to curl up with. I hadn't thought about whether the rooms would be locked or not earlier but if the key to all their rooms was here I may as well grab it.
Part 26
With the keys secure and my access to the rest of my family’s room safely in my lap I was able to rest.
I had certainly talked too much today, my voice wasn't coming out anymore even if I was trying to speak.
Lionel was puttering about the room, fixing the pillows around me, straightening up the bed which had just been freshly made by some of the maids that Bethany had sent over, and drawing the thin gauzy curtains that my mother loved shut over the bright windows.
“These curtains certainly don't block much light…” he was staring at the barely darkened room, the material was thin and light making it so you could see out of the room even with them closed. They cast pretty shadows of different colors across the walls as the sunshine filtered through them. “Maybe they have some heavier ones in storage somewhere that we can put up?”
“His Majesty preferred these.” one of the girls motioned to the curtains, “they aren't meant to block out light, they're meant to soften it throughout the room.”
“But… curtains are meant to block light. How is she going to take a nap if the room is this bright?”
The two of them continued to bicker back and forth as I settled lower into the soft pillows that were on my father’s reading couch. It was just as comfy as I remembered in here and it still smelled like the perfumes my mother would wear and spritz around the room.
I was falling asleep right where I was, curled up in the pile of pillows that Lionel had propped up around me and snuggling deeper into the blanket that he had grabbed from the end of their bed. It was the soft gray one that my mother would use like a cloak on cold mornings and in winter evenings. He would throw it around his shoulders slip his arms through some of the folds and walk around as it billowed behind him like a fluffy cape.
I could almost forget what had happened like this, it was almost like I was back to when they were still here. Curling up and dozing off my parents whispered with their heads close together right next to me while the moon rose higher and higher up in the window.
Almost.
Lionel gently shook me from my dozing, insisting that I couldn't sleep on the couch. He scooped me up and gently settled me onto my parent's bed, helping me get tucked in and comfortable.
“I’ll be right outside in the sitting room if you need me.” He smiled softly at me before slipping out of the door and closing it quietly behind him.
I had meant to stay awake for a bit longer, to look around and start gathering some treasures from my mother and father, to find something to stash all the things I wished to gather later tonight from my brother cousins, and uncles. Instead, I slipped off to sleep, the fastest I had in a long time.
Happily wrapped up in the blankets my parents used to wrap me up in whenever it was storming outside and I was too terrified to sleep by myself. Curled up against the pillows they would turn into little mountains and fortresses when my brother and I wanted to play castles and dragons with them.
I slept through dinner, which I barely remember Lionel waking me up for and carefully helping me eat in my half-asleep state. Then I slept through the quick visit from the palace doctor, the worried mumbling between him and Lionel sounding far off as I drifted back to my cozy dreams.
I didn't wake up until the small sliver of the moon was shining bright and high through the large window that overlooked the garden from the treetops. Mother’s and father’s room was situated over the family foyer, their big arched window sat right on top of the grand window that looked out from between the two Mongolia trees. Their view peered out from between the pink flowering branches.
The lightweight curtains barely blocked my view of the stars, the colorful muslin allowing the glowing sparks to be seen from where I was lying.
Still, I wanted to see them even clearer than they were now.
I carefully pushed myself up from the bed, untangling the blankets and pillows from around me as I moved to the edge of the bed. It was higher off the ground than the others, often-times when I was smaller my parents would need to help me up and down it.
Now though, as I swung my legs on its side, my feet could reach the plush carpet on the floor beneath it. I tried to put some weight on my shaky legs, but they began to buckle beneath me once again.
How would I get to the window? I wanted to move the curtains and see the stars without any interference, like how my father would show them to me when he would rock me to sleep in his arms when I was little.
Standing in front of the window, the curtains held to the side by the small hook on the wall, swaying back and forth as he would sing little songs about the lights in the sky and pet my hair until I fell asleep in his hold.
I wanted to see them again, to point out and name them as my brother and I had done for so long. To recall the stories and history behind the ones that my father would tell us about.
There was far more furniture in this room than there was in the one I had been staying in. There were tables and couches close to the bed and window, I could use them to hold myself up or to pull myself along to the window.
The arching glass reached the floor, so I would be able to sit on the stone near it to look out of the window. I wouldn't have to try and pull myself up by the curtains to see anything.
Pulling myself off of the bed and onto the thick woven rug that lay underneath the bed that my mother had gotten from his homelands, I landed on my knees. Raising myself on them shakily I reached out to cling onto the draping blankets of the bed.
I carefully pull myself along the bedside, gently shuffling on my knees as I do. Slowly, very slowly, and painfully I make my way across the bed to the dark wood end table at its head. I bring my arms away from the bed, stretching them up and out towards the solid table at my side. It takes more effort to keep myself pulled up on the hard surface than it did to pull and grasp at the blankets and bedsheets.
From one surface to another, from one piece of familiar furniture to the next, I pulled and shuffled my way to the window. Off of one woven rug onto another soft carpet and off of that onto the stone floor, I dragged myself along the floor. Shuffling along on my knees and dragging myself along with the furniture.
Clinging to the soft sides of lounges or heavy blankets, handing off of the sides and back of the high claw-footed couches and chairs, or pulling myself along by the table tops and sides of tables, desks, and towering bookshelves.
Slowly, ever so slowly, and painfully I brought myself from the bed to the window. I had to crawl across the last bit of the floor, dragging myself across the stones until I could press up against the cold glass.
Brushing the curtains aside I slide up as close as I can, leaning against the clear panes and fogging them up with my breath. The curtains fluttered shut around me, cooning me against the window as I stared breathlessly up at the stars that shone through the sky.
I could see the familiar shapes and clusters of glowing dots in the inky drapery of the night sky. The names and stories my father would whisper to my brother and I would flood back into my memory as I gazed upon them all.
The little sparkling groups and solo stars that my brother and I had named ourselves and come up with countless stories for were shining brightly at me. The laughter and little arguments would have returned to me as I stared at them fondly.
The Garden Gnome Gambit
It was a Tuesday when I found myself inadvertently embroiled in a sequence of events that would later form the cornerstone of my memoirs - assuming, of course, that anyone would be absurd enough to publish them. The day began innocuously enough; I was merely an average person with a penchant for minor acts of rebellion and an unrivaled talent for making poor life decisions.
The incident that transformed my ordinary existence into a spectacle worthy of public exhibition commenced with a seemingly harmless endeavor: I aimed to set a record for the most garden gnomes repositioned in a single night. It was an act motivated not by malice but by a thirst for adventure and perhaps a subtle disdain for the gaudy ceramic figures that had colonized the neighborhood lawns.
Armed with nothing more than a flashlight, a misguided sense of purpose, and sneakers that had seen better days, I embarked on my nocturnal mission. Success was within my grasp until the silence of the night was shattered by the unmistakable sound of a siren. It appeared that in my enthusiasm for gnome relocation, I had inadvertently trespassed on the property of a retired police officer who fancied himself a vigilante of suburban peace.
Faced with the immediate threat of apprehension for a crime as ignoble as gnome displacement, I did what any self-respecting fugitive of garden decor crimes would do: I ran. The chase was less a testament to my athleticism and more an ad hoc obstacle course involving shrubbery, garden hoses, and the occasional startled cat.
My breaths were heavy, my heart pounded against my chest like a drum solo from a rock concert, and sweat coated my brow like a glaze on a holiday ham. The officers, undoubtedly bemused yet unyielding, were hot on my heels, their determination fueled by the prospect of apprehending a gnome bandit.
In a stroke of luck that seemed almost scripted by the fates, an open door appeared on the sidewalk, as if the universe itself had conspired to afford me a sliver of hope. With the police mere whispers behind me, I darted through the doorway, tumbling into salvation’s embrace. The heavy door swung shut with a thud that echoed my racing heart.
I remained still, crouched beneath the window, daring not to breathe as the sound of footsteps and radio chatter passed by, growing fainter with each passing moment. The relief that washed over me was a tidal wave of euphoria; I had escaped the clutches of the law with nothing more than my wits and an uncanny ability to spot an open door.
As my breathing steadied and the adrenaline that had fueled my frenetic escape ebbed away, I let myself bask in the fleeting illusion of triumph. Triumph, however, as I was soon to discover, is often a prelude to tribulation. Slowly, with the cautious curiosity of a cat nearing a suspiciously unattended bowl of cream, I rose from my sanctuary under the window, my heart still performing an erratic symphony within my chest.
I turned, expecting to face a room as ordinary as any other, perhaps cluttered with the mundane artifacts of domestic life. Instead, I found myself in a space that defied all conventional expectations, a room that would have made Salvador Dali raise his eyebrows in both confusion and admiration.
The walls were adorned with paintings that seemed to pulse and writhe in their frames, depicting scenes that oscillated between the fantastical and the macabre. Books were strewn about, their pages filled with indecipherable script that shimmered under the flickering light of a chandelier festooned with what appeared to be crystals, but upon closer inspection, were actually intricately carved bones.
In the center of the room stood a table, upon which was arrayed a curious collection of objects: a compass that spun in endless circles, a clock with thirteen hours, and a crystal ball that clouded and cleared intermittently, revealing fleeting glimpses of unknown places. The air was thick with the scent of incense and something else, something cloyingly sweet yet unmistakably metallic - the smell of blood.
But it was not the bizarre furnishings or the unsettling artwork that sent a shiver down my spine; it was the occupants of the room. Gathered around the table were figures cloaked in shadows, their features obscured, save for the glint of their eyes in the dim light. Each pair of eyes fixed on me with an intensity that rooted me to the spot, a rabbit caught in the gaze of serpents.
The silence was oppressive, a tangible force that seemed to squeeze the very air from my lungs. A voice, smooth as silk and cold as ice, broke the stillness. “Welcome,” it said, each syllable weaving through the shadows like a chill wind. “We’ve been expecting you.”
My mouth felt as dry as a desert, my tongue a useless slab of meat in my mouth. Questions pounded against the forefront of my mind with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Who were these people? What was this place? And, perhaps most pressingly, how had they been expecting me?
Before I had the chance to voice any of these questions, the figure who had spoken stepped forward, emerging from the shadows into the wavering light. The sight that greeted me was so startling, so absurdly out of place with the gravity of the situation, that I nearly laughed.
The figure was garbed in a robe that seemed stitched together from the night sky itself, stars twinkling within the fabric with a light that seemed both impossible and mesmerizing. But it was the face that captured my attention: it was covered by a mask that was nothing less than a giant rubber duck.
“Now,” the figure said, the duck’s beak moving comically with each word, “let’s discuss why you’re here.”
The rational part of my brain, the part that had been meticulously cultivated through years of dull college lectures and an unshakably pragmatic upbringing, screamed that none of this could possibly be happening. The world did not operate on the principles of surrealism and absurdity painted before my very eyes. Yet here I was, conversing with an entity that could only have leaped from the fevered dream of a deranged novelist, its countenance obscured by a façade that sparked an odd juxtaposition of fear and amusement within me.
“Discuss?” I echoed, my voice laced with incredulity, betraying the whirlwind of emotions coursing through me. “I don’t even know how I ended up here, let alone why.”
The figures around the table shifted, a symphony of whispers filling the space between us, their words indecipherable, yet laden with expectation. The duck-masked figure raised a hand, and silence returned as swiftly as it had been broken.
“You are here because fate has woven you into the tapestry of events far greater than the sum of your misdemeanors with garden ornaments,” the figure intoned, the absurdity of the statement doing nothing to diminish its gravity. “Though, admittedly, your choice of pastime is… unconventional.”
A snort escaped me despite the gravity of the situation. Unconventional indeed. Never had I imagined my nocturnal activities would lead me down a rabbit hole that made Wonderland seem like a guided tour of a suburban shopping mall.
“You stand at a crossroads,” the duck continued, its tone somber. “One path leads to redemption, the other to ruination. The choice is yours, but choose wisely. The consequences will ripple through the eons.”
I blinked. Redemption? Ruination? Eons? The words painted a picture so vastly different from my expectations of post-escape hiding that I couldn’t help but feel as if I had stumbled into someone else’s story, a protagonist by accident rather than design.
“And how exactly am I supposed to make this choice?” I asked, skepticism threading my words. “I mean, no offense, but this is all coming on a bit strong. Last I checked, I was just avoiding a trespassing charge, not meddling in the affairs of cosmic importance.”
Laughter, light and lilting, filled the room, emanating from the shrouded figures. It was not mocking but seemed imbued with genuine amusement.
“The bravery you displayed tonight, the willingness to defy the odds, it was merely a precursor,” the figure clarified, its tone warmer now, more inviting. “Your true test lies within this room. Choose an object from the table. It will determine your path.”
I studied the table, the bizarre items now taking on a new light of significance. The compass spun with wild abandon, the clock ticked irregularly, and the crystal ball… I stepped closer, drawn to its mysterious depths. Without fully understanding why, I reached out, my fingers brushing against the cool surface.
The room held its breath.
Then, without warning, reality bent. The walls, the figures, the entire room stretched and twisted, colors bleeding into one another as time and space contorted. I was falling, plummeting through a vortex that defied all laws of physics, the last thing I saw before darkness took me was the duck-masked figure, its eyes gleaming with a light that spoke of untold secrets and imminent adventure.
When consciousness returned, it tiptoed back, hesitant, as if unsure it was returning to the right person. My eyes fluttered open, greeted by a canopy of stars strewn across a sky so vast, so infinitely deep, that I felt I could drown in it. I lay on my back, the ground beneath me neither hard nor soft, but oddly insubstantial, as if I were resting on the concept of ground rather than the thing itself.
Sitting up, I found the world around me had rearranged its features once more, now resembling neither the peculiar room nor the familiar streets I had known. Instead, I was in a place that defied straightforward description. It was as if the universe had taken a handful of landscapes from a dozen different planets and woven them together into a tapestry of bewildering diversity. Mountains that shimmered with an iridescent sheen towered next to forests where the leaves sang in the wind, a melody both haunting and beautiful.
In the distance, a river flowed, its waters a swirling miasma of colors that no earthly palette could contain. The air was thick with a fragrance that was simultaneously new and ancient, filled with notes of jasmine, ozone, and something indefinably otherworldly.
As I stood, a sense of vertigo momentarily overtook me, not from a fear of falling, but from the sudden realization that I had profoundly underestimated the gravity of my situation. The words of the duck-masked figure echoed in my mind: a choice between redemption and ruination, with consequences rippling through eons.
I took a tentative step forward, half expecting the ground to give way beneath me. Instead, it held firm, the surreal landscape beckoning me to explore. As I walked, the reality of my circumstance began to settle in; I was no mere fugitive of a mundane justice system. I had become an unwitting participant in a trial that spanned the cosmos, my fate entwined with forces beyond my comprehension.
The river drew me nearer, its waters calling to me with a voice that was felt rather than heard. As I approached, an object caught my eye, half-submerged in the kaleidoscopic flow. It was a mirror, its frame adorned with intricate carvings that seemed to shift and change under my gaze.
Tentatively, I reached out, my fingers grazing the cool metal of the frame before grasping it firmly. Drawing the mirror from the river, I held it before me, taking in my reflection. But what stared back was not my face, or rather, not just my face. It was a visage that morphed and flowed, reflecting myriad possibilities of who I was, who I could be, and who I might yet become.
Each reflection was me, yet not me—different paths I could take, lives I could live. Each choice I had ever made, or might yet make, played out in an infinite dance of consequences, a reminder of the weight of choice and the power of action.
It was then that realization dawned upon me, as bright and blinding as the stars overhead. This was not a trial of cosmic jesters or a test by extraterrestrial beings. It was a journey of self-discovery, a trial by fire designed to reveal the essence of my being, to challenge me to confront my fears, my hopes, my very identity.
With a deep breath, I looked once more into the mirror, my gaze steady. The reflections slowed, coalescing into a single image, a vision of myself not as I was but as I could be. A version of me unbound by past regrets or future anxieties, free to forge my destiny with the raw materials of choice and will.
Armed with this newfound understanding, I turned from the river, the mirror in hand, and stepped forward into the unknown land that sprawled before me. For the first time, I felt a sense of purpose, a conviction that, regardless of the path I chose, the journey itself was the destination.
And though I could not have known it then, my adventures had only just begun. For in the realms of the infinite, every ending is but a new beginning, every choice a doorway to endless possibilities.
Chapter Twenty-Six - the Magicians Apprentice
The young man had become the Great One’s apprentice. He left his old life behind. He left behind his friends and the people he cared about. He left behind his labor in the fields. He left behind the evenings spent in comradery with his fellow peasants. He became singerly focused on becoming the best magician he could be. He learned about what the Great One called the spark and how to recognize it in others. He learned how to use its powers to shape reality and he dreamed.
He dreamed of an army sweeping over the Earth like locusts devouring everything in its path. He saw the Kingdom’s of the world fall one by one to this great power. No one could prevail. The dream always ended the same, with the woman opposing this army. A woman who could command the very forces of nature. Every night when these two forces collided in an epic battle to decide the fate of the world, the apprentice woke up. The great one had told him it was the future he saw. The apprentice knew that the woman must be found, she must be trained. The great one said that she wasn’t even born yet and that the events he saw were not going to happen for some time. But what if this army is moving right now, what if they have little time to prepare for the inevitable. The great one assured him that precautions had been taken.
They were currently assembling a great army themselves. All the resources at his disposal were being funneled into making this happen. The apprentice tried to reason with his master. None of their precautions were enough. Their only hope was to find the woman he saw in his dream. She is the only one that could save them.
One day the apprentice ran across a young woman working mending clothes. He sensed that she had the spark. Could she be the one? How would he know when he found her?
“Excuse me miss?” the apprentice greeted the young woman.
The young woman bowed in respect to the apprentice. Even though he wasn’t the great one, he still had a reputation, and no one wanted to feel his wrath. He had never actually done anything bad to anyone, but everyone knew he was capable of it and there’s always a first time for everything.
“How may I serve you?” The woman responded.
“How would you like me to teach you how to use magic?” The apprentice offered.
“Me, sir?” The women responded confused.
“You can use magic. I can teach you how to do it.” The apprentice explained.
“I intend no offense,” The young woman started, “But those who practice magic are cursed. I want no part of it.”
“No offense is taken,” The apprentice said warmly, “Do you want me to remove your ability then.” The apprentice had never heard of anyone’s spark being taken away, but theoretically he felt it was possible and if this young woman didn’t want it, he would be happy to add her spark to his own.
“Yes, please” The women answered.
The apprentice thought about it for a moment. After thinking about the right approach, he uttered some words which sounded like nonsense. A wave washed over them both and the apprentice could feel his own power increase. Furthermore, he did not sense the spark in the young woman anymore. When the apprentice returned to the great one. The great one sensed that his power had increased.
“Your spark has grown.” The great one said, “by quite a bit.”
“I met a young woman. I sensed that she had the spark and I offered to train her. She told me she didn’t want it and gave it to me.” The apprentice answered.
“You took the spark from another person.” The great one said, concerned, “How is that even possible?”
“I don’t know” The apprentice answered, “But I did it. I added her spark to my own.”
“That is not the right way to grow your spark.” The great one scolded, “That kind of power leads to corruption and corruption leads to suffering.”
“I meant no harm,” the apprentice answered, “I promise I won’t do it again.”
“The army has been assembled and trained. It is the greatest army the world has ever seen. When the army you saw in your dream opposes us, it will not be an easy victory.” The great one announced.
“We should not be assembling this ‘great army’. We should be looking for the woman.” The apprentice argued.
“We have no idea when this woman will appear, but you must trust that she will appear when she is needed.” The great one responded.
Didn’t the great one understand that this army is doomed. There is no way this army is victorious against the army is saw in his dream. The apprentice was convinced that the great one had lost his way. For whatever reason, the great one was not able to understand the dire situation they were in. They had been warned of the danger and it was their duty to make sure this future army didn’t succeed. The only way to do that was to find the woman.
“But you don’t know that the woman is victorious because you never see the end of the dream” The Great One would argue.
“But it’s our only chance.” The apprentice would argue back.
The Great One could feel that something was off in his apprentice. His apprentice wasn’t thinking clearly, and he had grown in power. If he were to come unhinged, it would complicate matters greatly.
That night the apprentice had a dream, only this time it was different. This time he didn’t see the splendor of the Kingdom’s of the world. He saw the suffering of the masses. He saw the ones upon whom the Kingdom’s were built and who did not share equally in its glory. In Kingdom after Kingdom, he saw misery and suffering as common people went about the task of survival while a privileged few benefitted from its wealth. He heard the people cry out for help, but no one answered their cry.
He woke up in a cold sweat. He was the one who heard their cry. He had to be the one who was going to answer it.
When it rains, it pours
I roll my eyes to the sky. You have got to be kidding me. I rise from my desk and grab my bag as I head to the loo. Quickly, I strip out of my trousers and pants and grab yet another pair of pants out of my bag. What did I expect? After a week full of play, my clit and cunt are still swollen and in a constant state of arousal. I am constantly soaking wet.
All day long I could feel it, my arousal slowly dripping out of my cunt. As another colleague goes past, I sincerely hope they can’t smell me, because I certainly can. How many hours until I can go home? Touch myself?
Finally, I walk in my front door and just drop my things on the floor. I head upstairs to strip out of my clothes. I slide on my running shorts and a comfy old hoodie. I tell myself, I won’t touch myself today. I need time for my body to recuperate.
I turn on the ice hockey, but as I watch, I hear it. Thrum. I push my attention back to the telly. Thrum. I clench my thighs together. I try to think about something else. Thrum. Who am I kidding. I can feel my cunt muscles clenching, my arousal growing, the telltale wetness running down my thigh.
Just a light touch I tell myself. I let my finger slide up the leg of my shorts, I dip my finger into the juices as it glides up and over my clit. My legs instantly open up. I feel my hips already pushing up from the chair. No! I’m not touching myself today. I’m recuperating. If that’s the case, why has my hand not pulled away? I close my eyes and let my head fall back.
Oh yes, Sir. You like it when my pussy is wet and throbbing. Ready for you to use as you like. I imagine your smile, well, more a smirk as I continue to stroke myself. You knew my resolve would crumble. I try so hard, I focus all my attention and with all the will I can muster, I pull my fingers away.
I look down at my fingers and take them in my mouth. Oh I taste good. I slide my fingers in and out of my mouth suck every drop of wetness off of them. Pussy. I haven’t eaten pussy in far too long. Could I do that for you, Sir. Grace maybe?
As I shift position, I feel my rock hard nipples rub against my hoodie. My breath catches. So sensitive. So ripe. I lean over and open the drawer on the coffee table and pull out two clothespegs. I lift up my hoodie and grab my nipple between my fingers. I pull and twist viciously. My hips fly out of my chair and a hiss escapes my mouth, ‘Yes, oh yes.’ The pain is perfect. I push down harder on the clamp of the clothespeg and pull and twist again. ‘More!’ I demand. Like my demands would ever get me anywhere. I hear your voice in my head. ‘Just for that whore, unclamp your nipple.’
‘No, please, I’ll be good. It feels so good. I promise. I‘m sorry, Sir, so so sorry’. My eyes plead. You raise your eyebrow at me. I sigh heavily and bring my hand down to release the clothespeg. It hasn’t been on there long enough to have that rush of pain and pleasure when blood flows back into the nipple. Instead, I only feel the absence of the peg. I wait. My breathing slows. I know better than to ask, this as much as the removal of the peg is my punishment. My body twitches in restraint.
’Well, whore, do you think you can remember who serves and who is being served?’ I nod my head. ‘Well?’
‘Yes, Sir, I am here to serve you, to please you,’ I try to let some of my indignation go. I can see your smile and with a jerk of your head, I grab for the clothespeg again. I pinch hard on my nipple and pull it and then with practiced skill, I twist viciously. As a shudder runs through my body and a ‘yes’ comes through my lips, I clamp the clothespeg back on my nipple. The pain just triggers my wetness again and my thoughts start to go hazy at the edges.
Without missing a beat, I lift my other breast to my mouth and suck the nipple into my mouth. I flick my tongue across it and feel the hardness solidifying. I bite down on my nipple and yelp as my teeth clench together. I gradually release the pressure and drop my breast from my mouth. I snatch at my nipple and squeeze it between my fingers. I pull it away from my body, stretching my breast out. Just when I don’t think it will pull any further, I twist and it gives a bit more. I snap the second clothespeg in place. I fall down on my knees. I adore the pain that pushes me further and further. I want it all.
I spread my legs apart and sit back on my heels. I stay like that for a moment, trying to slow my beating heart. I feel my arm start to move towards my pussy. I can’t not touch myself at this point. I know I need to cum. I need to push and push until I want to scream for anyone to hear. What do I care? As long as I get to cum, I couldn’t care less.
I squeeze my arms together so that my breasts are trapped between them. That way, every stroke, every thrust will cause my breasts to jiggle sending little shockwaves through my body. I slide my finger over my clit and let it stay there for a few moments, stroking gently, circling, as my pelvis lifts towards my finger, my breasts shake. So good .
I dip my finger into my cunt finally, warm, wet, enticing. I start slowly, sliding one finger in and out. Teasing at first, and then a bit harder, a bit faster. My head falls back. I slide a second finger in beside the first. Mmmmm. My hips thrust. I can hear the squelching of my wetness. I should be embarrassed, but I’m beyond caring. I slam my fingers in deeper. Harder. My breathing echoes in my ears. My nipples can feel the pull as the clothespegs bounce in time to the rhythm of my body. Now a third. You dirty, little whore. What a cunt. And you’re still not satisfied are you? You want more. The words scroll through my mind, as I reach down and shove my fourth finger in. A groan escapes me as I feel so full. My hips fly into the air, my head falls back, i can hear the sound of the clothespegs as they bump into one another. Harder whore, harder. I slam in as hard as I can and as fast as I can. I shake my head as I feel my orgasm mounting, pushing outward, I can feel my muscles tense and I scream as my orgasm hits, again and again. I can feel the water gushing out of me onto the floor. I fall forward and scream again as my nipples and clothespegs brush against the floor. I drag myself back upright. I shut my
eyes and bite down hard on my bottom lip. I raise my hands to each of my nipples. At the same time, I wrench both clothespegs from my nipples. As feeling returns another orgasm shoots through me. I let this one play out and slowly fade away. Every inch of my body feels like it’s throbbing. I lean forward my hands on the floor. I place my head on top of my hands. I whisper, ‘thank you, Sir.’ I hope you will be well pleased.
Why I Write
He really liked my writing, actually. He was fascinated with my words. He had an uncanny ability to memorize any passage of literature no matter how large it was. He read every poem, short story, and even edited my first novel. I guess he thought it would impress me if he could quote my own words back at me. I found it awkward. At first, I really enjoyed it. He was more enthusiastic to read my work than any friend, romantic or otherwise, had ever been. But it changed. He started asking me if I'd written anything. If I had, he just absolutely had to get his hands on it. I'd always said my writing was a part of me. Quoting my words back to me, he said he just wanted to get to know me.
I know lying is wrong, but when he asked if I had created anything recently, no matter what had flowed onto the page, I said no. I preferred to volunteer pieces for his consumption and criticism. It worked for a little while. I could relax and write whatever I wanted to. My therapist recommended journaling and even gave me a composition book to use.
In my free time, I often used the journal. I hadn't handwritten much in a while, but it was even more cathartic than my keyboard. He caught me one time, writing an entry with a poem and a drawing of a bird tacked onto the bottom.
He asked to see it, and when I refused, it was like a cold breeze blew into the room. His entire demeanor changed. It darkened in a physical way that I'd never experienced from him before. "Are you hiding something from me?"
Naive as I was, I found no other argument to prove my innocence than to hand over the entry. And to my deepening horror, he flipped open to the first page. Any protest that the words in there were private, were hushed and waved away as if I were just a fly. I told him that I couldn't watch him read it in front of me and I let him take it home.
I wish I could go back to that moment sometimes and dump him right there on the spot. He claimed a relationship was built on trust, and if I didn't trust him, then we couldn't be together. But I could have done two things: first, I could have said, alright, then I don't trust you and we would have ended. Second, I could have accused him of not trusting me. But I was so afraid of losing him, of losing someone who cared about me, that I let him walk all over me.
I stopped writing.
I lied to my therapist about the journal.
I attempted a few soulless poems. Though likely some of my prettiest verses, all for him, I've since deleted them.
He thanked me for my openness with the journal when he gave it back to me. I still have the journal. I never filled in the last twenty pages or so, even though I had wanted, originally, to complete the entire thing like a physical copy of my memories, my emotions, and my ponderings. I haven't ever gone back to read it, despite the memory lapses, for there was more than just the manipulation. I don't keep it to remind myself of the pain and stupidity of that year and a half. I keep it to remind myself that I won't be naive or allow myself to be smothered. I keep it to remind myself to keep writing. Not for him, not for my friends, not for my family, not even for my husband who I'm completely enamored with. I keep writing for myself.
The Rationality of Music
I grew up thinking music wasn't all that important in my family.
It wasn't pervasive like the argumentative silence-- the constant grudge that was held against communication and creativity in general. But I was wrong. Impressions leave a mark, and they are only half-truths, empty indentations, before the long paragraph that would follow as explanation.
Music was part of our myth, after all; the Polyphemus, kneeling.
I grew up believing I wasn't musical, and competitive as is my nature, I was determined to make up for that deficit. I asked Mother for a flute one year. The year before they would have selected openings for Band. I was eight.
Flute, sax, clarinet, trumpet, or drums. Those were the options for tutoring.
"Ask your grandfather," was the monotone answer behind the magazine, after a long sip of homemade latte. Mother liked a little coffee with her heavy cream, between the lazy trailings of her red tipped dragon companion. Newports.
Her father, Bruno, with deference, was one step from church and God Almighty--
he was Bank.
Promptly, my grandparents returned from a trip to Europe with a lovely hand carved wooden recorder. (Flute, sax, clarinet, trumpet or drums, remember? unless trying out for string orchestra.) Sigh. I was disappointed. I had no natural ear; otherwise maybe I'd be already mimicking bits of Mozart... with all humility, I knew I needed lessons.
Mother played the piano; and refused to teach us. The basics, to me and my sister. Finger positions, chords...
"I'm not good enough," she sighed pushing some junk mail from side to side.
I persisted.
I wanted a flute. For a very specific pragmatic reason.
It's odd the way things metaphorically distort mentally, in the eye. Stress. They say children lose their distance-vision as a defensive response--to things they fear to see or wish to shut out of their lives.
Listening intently to the inside.
I don't condemn them for it, philosophically. Our parents refused to get us glasses, though both my sister and I "clearly needed" them by mid-elementary years. The admonishment was that the crutch of lenses would make the myopic condition irreversible.
As might be imagined, it made school difficult-- not seeing the board, math problems, or oncoming persons, or gym balls, etc., etcetera.
I strategized that a flute would secure the comfortable "convincing" distance I'd need to actually see the music sheets, and discretely learn the notes, in sound and name, and the corresponding finger positionings... Music is dynamic like that...
The Bank, reconsidered.
And gave me a beautiful, old, imported Stradivarius.
It was gorgeous. Red carved and lacquered wood with requisite horsehair bow and an amber block of intoxicating pine-scented rosin. They immediately encouraged me to take it out and hold it, under the chin proper, with arms extended... my nine-year-old heart breaking at every silent punctuation of the natural dimensions required.
No, I could not see the music sheet to save my life.
Not only did I have no natural talent to "play by ear," but now with musical notation in front of my face, I was a certified idiot.
I was just awful. Mrs. Bobiak all but said so.
I practiced of course, at home, at odd angles, to memorize the songs so as not to mortify myself, in front of peers, but time and time again, if asked to start at some arbitrary point (on paper) I was at a loss... f*k if I knew what note was what where, and somehow Mrs. Bobiak never grasped that I could not see the sheet...
My sister, on our Father's insistence for fairness, was also given a Stradivarius, the subsequent year; to her bewilderment; and she took the thing with emotional distance. She never saw the issue. She was musical, and voice was her preferred instrument.
As for the violin, she seldom practiced.
To wrap this part of the torturous history, a brief stint in foster care, as well as court appointed healthcare, landed us both in unfashionable, but functional eyeglasses. My sister made rapid progress. Mrs. Bobiak said so and smiled politely at my continued ineptitude.
I continued to grow up believing my family really didn't care for music...
All the perquisites were there, but surrealistically misplaced.
Father, on his part, had recorded with a band of his own devising (...Ciche Mnichi, meaning The Silent Monks) in which he played Banjo. Our family house had a modest collection of unplayed vinyl with the standby labels and titles, Elvis, Roy, Aretha, Beatles, etc... here respectability shattered... the expensive stereo was as if permanently transfixed to a leaky corner of the living room, where water seeped from the cathedral ceiling and made it semi-operable... and upstairs in the library closet, audio cassettes number in the 100's including four sometimes five copies of identical albums... maniacally... still sealed in cellophane, and those hard plastic wrap around handles designed to prevent theft....
And the greatest treasures, of lyric and instrumentals, were bootleg. Wojtek Mlynarski. Maciej Zembaty, Edith Piaf, Leonard Cohen, among others. And some that got transferred over, and over to fresh blanks... Like ABBA and 100 of the World's Most Beautiful Melodies...
As it turned out, Father cared so much for music that he would rather play it in his memory, than suffer a washed-out reality over poor equipment or disintegrated copy. He told me, when he could not suffer another note by Aula Babdul (*on poor mix tape containing the otherwise esteemed Paula Abdul).
Which explains, in part, why music was listened to primarily in the car...
It was Mother who surprised me most, years later... when she met my husband, music fanatic Bunny Villaire, and it turned out they spoke as if the same language, like veritable encyclopedias, referencing fairly obscure gems of music recording...
Mother even voiced the title on his mind an hour before our wedding as he searched his files for just tune as I descended the stairs...
"...play the Power of Love," she suggest. "Perfect," he answered, setting the needle.
I understand now that love of music is kept locked, close to the heart, and emerges at times, spiritually like Gospel or Jazz, improv.
And it is beautiful to take part in Song, whatever the genre; and its counterpart.
The track that comes to mind, as haunting my music experience:
https://youtu.be/qYS0EeaAUMw?si=Yn0rNy6gHhh_JQHR
Chapter Twenty-Five Princess no more
Gina walked toward her place of refuge with Toby’s arm wrapped around her. She looked at the destruction. The enemy, whose victory had been decisive, had already started repairing the damage. Common people had been summoned to commence in the effort to make everything normal again. She didn’t see the looting and pillaging that normally accompanied a military victory. The enemy didn’t just come to destroy, they have a purpose, and they are organized. If the lives of common people improved under this new power, why would they want to go back to how things were before. Toby was right, she had to learn how to be ‘normal’ because her old life was gone.
Toby was happy. He wasn’t happy because the Kingdom had just been defeated in humiliating fashion but because he was finally with the girl of his dreams. The one person he had longed for but could never have. That was before, now that she was normal, he could have her. They were free to live a life together. Of course, he knew she hadn’t fallen for him yet, but now that she was in his sphere of influence, it was only a matter of time. Her choices would be severely limited and unlike the future, a single woman doesn’t last long here.
“We’re almost there.” Toby announced quietly. He had been trying to shield her so that people wouldn’t recognize her. It would be easier if her clothing represented a common person but while she was dressed in nice things, it would be a problem. Fortunately, there were a lot of distractions to keep people from noticing. Life was far from normal now and people had a lot to deal with.
They reached Toby’s humble dwelling, and he showed her around. There really wasn’t much to see as it was basically one room that changed identities depending on what use was needed. There was a bedroll on the floor, there was a small table with a single chair and there was a small stove that wasn’t really a stove but resembled more of something you might have at a campfire. He also had a small chest that contained his change of clothing. He was simple. He didn’t need anything else. He spent his days working hard in the fields and every so often he would treat himself to a meal at the pub. Gina looked around. She had no idea that people lived like this. Her own room in the castle was larger and warmer and she didn’t have to use her room for EVERYTHING.
“Stay here and don’t go anywhere.” Toby ordered, “I’ll be right back.” Toby left and Gina was all alone. She had been by herself many times, but she never felt alone, this time she did. The uncertainty of the future and what she was supposed to do with herself made her feel alone. She was lucky to have Toby to give her a place to sleep. With the realization of her circumstances hitting her, she felt gratitude for one of the first times in her life.
Toby didn’t have to give her shelter. He didn’t have to be afraid of reprisals for not obeying her every whim. She felt for the first time that Toby liked her. She isn’t the monster that everyone thinks she is. She realized that the time she had spent in the future changed her. In the future she was normal and if she could be normal there, she could be normal here.
Toby returned with some clothing. “Here, I got some clothes for you. It will be better for you to blend in with everyone if you look the part.” Toby explained, “I’ll step outside while you change.” Without further conversation, Toby steps outside to allow Gina to change in private.
Toby looks over the relief efforts. Common people and enemy combatants are working together to return things to normal. This is not the way enemies usually behave after a victory, Toby thought. It was strange. There was something not right about it. No one does that. When an enemy conquers, the victor takes the spoils. They don’t reinvest it into the place they just conquered. Toby didn’t see anyone who belonged to the King’s army. Toby guessed that they were captured and taken somewhere. While he was thinking this thought, he saw men, who he recognized as soldiers, walk into town from somewhere. Overcome with curiosity, Toby stopped one such man.
“They let you go?” Toby asked.
“Yes,” The man replied, looking like he had just suffered from PTSD.
“Why?” toby followed up.
“The man told us we could either join his army or go back home and live in peace.” The man answered, “So I’m going home.” That was weird, just letting enemy soldiers go home.
“Did anyone stay?” Toby asked.
“Yeah, a lot of men stayed.” The man answered again.
“That is really strange.” Toby said, thinking out loud.
“They plan to conquer the entire world” The man said, “and I think they can do it.”
“The whole world?” Toby asked, “The whole world is too big.”
“They can try all they want; I don’t care as long as I don’t have to fight.” The man said.
Toby allowed the man to continue his way. Toby didn’t get it. A lot of things were not adding up. Toby was sure that the old man could have stopped Gina from killing him. He was a powerful wizard. He must have let Gina kill him. Toby couldn’t think of any good reason why the wizard would commit suicide like that but there had to be one. The old man wasn’t just powerful, but he was also wise. He saw things that other people had no chance of seeing. Toby tried to think of what that reason could possibly be but couldn’t think of one.
Gina poked her head outside for a moment to let Toby know he could come back inside. Once inside, when Toby laid eyes on her, even though she was dressed plainly, she still took his breath away. Toby made a place on the floor as comfortable as he could for Gina to sleep and then he laid himself on the hard floor beside her. Gina was a bit cold. She wished there was a fire to warm them up. Before long, she felt warmer and drifted off to sleep. Toby felt warmer too. He looked and noticed that there was a fire on the stove heating the entire room but no wood to fuel it. Now where did that come from? He thought to himself.