Circle in the Sand

Anywhere you go
We are bound together
I begin where you end
Some things are forever
     --Belinda Carlisle, Circle in the Sand

The stars hung above the churning surf. Motionless. Not like the sheets of foam that fanned across sand, then pulled back out to sea.

Her hair fluttered in the longshore breeze. Shells jabbed at the soles of her feet. Her eyes followed the strand curving in the distance.

A track of footprints traced the shoreline.

Her mind wove through all of the reasons she should follow them.

And all the reasons she should not.

Safe and Sound

I remember tears streaming down your face
When I said, I'll never let you go
When all those shadows almost killed your light
I remember you said don't leave me alone
But all that's dead and gone and passed tonight
Just close your eyes
The sun is going down
You'll be alright
No one can hurt you now
Come morning light
You and I will be safe and sound
     --Taylor Swift, Safe and Sound

The old house stands.

Early spring drips with only the whisper of a sound.

Inside, light filters through windows. It falls with dust on the furniture and empty chairs.

No footfalls creak on the stairs. No rasping pages of a book turn in hands. No voice spits anger or confesses a heart laid bare.

The clock ticks, sleepy yet not asleep, and light filters because none of the trees have unfurled the shade of leaves.

Knives lay in the drawers. Washed.

Knives will clatter if you open the drawers.

The Promise

I'm sorry, but I'm just thinking of the right words to say
I know they don't sound the way I planned them to be
but if I had to walk the world I'd make you fall for me
I promise you, I promise you, I will
     --When in Rome, The Promise

The high school chemistry teacher droned.

The class fidgeted. Some even talked quietly in the back. The teacher wasn't aware. He lectured in a strange little bubble with his eyes half-closed. Like meditation.

A guy in the second row glanced at the girl next to him and rolled his eyes.

She smiled.

The guy didn't have to listen. He already knew the material. Once, he thumbed through the book just to make sure he would get to learn something new before the end.

"I'm going to kill myself," someone whispered nearby.

"If you do, please take him with you," another said.

The guy turned again, and the girl looked down at her desk.

His normally ordered brain spun. Not enough traction. And his throat felt tight.

"Hey, I could--" he whispered, but stopped.

She looked up.

"I could, um, help you with this stuff. If you want. This dude is the worst."

"No, I've got it," she said. "He's just putting me to sleep."

His brain still spun, but now his throat was tighter.

He told himself to keep his mouth shut. That was the smartest thing.

She smiled at him again.

He smiled back.

Paradise

In the night, the stormy night, away [he'd] fly.
     --Coldplay, Paradise

The boy stayed in his room while things moved outside the walls.

Black shapes, grimacing faces, and the evil eye. Like open windows with no curtains, no shutters. No one even bothered to put glass in the panes.

The boy stayed in his room while things moved outside the walls. He didn't look up, because he could feel them scurrying then stopping to stare. It was so much better when they ignored him.

He concentrated on the work in his hands and the cut papers scattered on the floor. His fingers worked. It was the best he could hope to do. To fashion what he never otherwise would have.

The holes in the wall were too small for the things to step through. But much too small to hide him (or for him to step out). Once in a while they laughed or spat, but he never stopped or looked up. They moved all hours of the day and night. And that is just how it was.

Shock the Monkey

Something knocked me out' the trees
Now I'm on my knees
     --Peter Gabriel, Shock the Monkey

The city darted around him.

Taxis and scissoring legs.

People crisscrossed, faces repeating. A few eyes caught his. Most did not.

The city darted.

Taxis and scissoring legs.

Motion and motion and motion.

Someone bumped his shoulder. He had tried to get out of the way. The other did not.

A horn blared. It hurt his ears.

A bus cut into traffic.

The light at a gridlocked intersection changed to green.

His phone rang. He checked the number. He ran his hand hard through his hair.

The phone still rang.

He threw it, spinning upwards and shattering on the concrete of a parking garage.

A few eyes caught his.

Most did not.

Taxis raced and legs scissored. He struggled to breathe. People passed with repeating faces.

Motion and motion and motion.

And he would only add to it if he ran.

500 Miles

If you miss the train I'm on
You will know that I am gone
You can hear the whistle blow 100 miles
     --Peter, Paul & Mary, 500 Miles

The daughter set the rest of the box of photos down.

"Mom? Who's this a picture of?"

The grayed woman reached with angular, hardened hands. "Let's see."

"It's just a guy by himself. Under a tree. Here."

The photo met fingertips.

No expression flickered on the woman's face. Her eyes didn't blink. Everything in the room suddenly felt heavy to the daughter. Nailed into place.

"Who is he?"

"Someone I used to know," the woman said.

"There's something different about him. I can't quite see his eyes in the shadows. Where was this taken?"

"I don't really remember. By a house, I think."

"What was his name?"

The woman stared at the photo.

"Do you remember it?"

"Yes."

"He was a boyfriend, wasn't he!"

"Not exactly."

"Oh my God, this is juicy. Before you met dad? Did he know?"

The woman turned the photo down in her lap. "No, there's no story to tell."

"Mom!"

"Hey, are those pictures of you and your sister back in Minnesota?"

"You're not changing the subject!"

The woman's eyes dropped down to the folded hands in her lap.

Finally, her expression did change. Reflected light sparkled under her eyelashes.

The daughter's excitement evaporated. "Hey, you've got to see these." She grabbed back the box with a little too much eagerness. "Look, do you remember this one? I insisted on wearing my ballerina costume into the pool. You were ready to kill me that day."

The daughter managed to slip the other photo out of her mother's hands.

"I remember," the woman said, sounding far away.

Come Undone

Who do you need?
Who do you love?
When you come undone?
     --Duran Duran, Come Undone

“Hey, are you alright?”

“…”

“Earth to Selene. Come in please.”

“What?”

“Are you alright?”

“Sure. I guess. Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. You really haven’t been yourself tonight.”

“Sorry. I’m a little distracted, I guess.”

“A little…?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“If you don’t want to tell your best friend about it, that’s okey. But we girls have to have each other’s backs, you know.”

“Yes, I know. I sorry. I don’t mean to be a drag. I don’t know what’s with me.”

“You need more sleep. That’s one thing.”

“True.”

“And that’s why I’m sending you home to bed right now. I’m serious.”

“I know you’re right.”

“Well chop-chop. March, young lady. We’re done here, obviously.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The two traded money to pay the check and walked out of the restaurant. With high heels on the curb, Selene hailed a cab.

“You’re okay from here?”

“Definitely,” Selene said.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then. I expect to see you rested.”

“Doctor’s orders….”

Selene slammed the door, and the cabbie pulled out. She waved back to the sidewalk where her friend had started walking, but the gesture was clipped and brief.

After she gave her address, she stared out at the passing city streets.

She knew her face had fallen. The meager façade was gone.

The cellphone turned in her fingers.

Six blocks later, she called him.

Good Life

Day turns to night
Night turns to whatever we want
We're young enough to say
This has gotta be the good life
This has gotta be the good life
This could really be a good life
     --One Republic, Good Life

He made coffee that filled the apartment with the smell of burn and sweet.

He sat. Blue sky glowed above the city outside his windows. Morning light washed the streets far below.

Work in forty-five minutes.

No use rushing. But no use sticking around in his small, annoying apartment either. He sipped and concentrated on enjoying the taste.

He thought about breakfast, but didn’t stand up from his chair in the end. All the sunshine penetrated only halfway. Night still lingered somewhere under his clothes. He would go back to bed, probably, if given the choice. Nothing would really propel him into the outside world.

A knock at the door startled him.

Strange. No one bothered him.

He tip-toed over to peep through and see if he should pretend not to be home.

It was the girl he had been thinking about more lately. The one who he started small talk with weeks ago and now had almost regular conversations with him.

He opened the door.

“Hi,” she said. She looked even more nervous than he felt.

“Hey,” he managed.

“I didn’t mean to barge in on you.”

“Are you, I mean, is everything okay?” he said.

“Oh yes. Everything is fine. Totally fine.”

“I just, I mean, I wasn’t--”

“I can go, if you’re busy.”

“No!” he said. “Please.”

As she stepped inside, he wanted to ask her why on Earth she came. Did he forget something? Drop his wallet or do something else equally stupid?

She seemed to sense the question. “I was kind of having breakfast,” she said, “and a thought suddenly hit me really strong. I just got up, caught a cab, and well, knocked on your door.”

He must have looked even more confused.

Her face changed. “I realized that I would much rather have breakfast with you,” she said.

He and She in the Yarrow

"The air is so still. Not a thing is moving."

"Don't breathe."

"I have to breathe."

"I like when you smile. And close your eyes. I wonder what you're thinking."

"I'm feeling the air not moving."

"That could be the strangest thing I ever heard."

"Shhhhhhhh. You love it."

"You can say that again."

"What? You're mumbling."

"Sorry. Nothing."

"Come here. Sit up with me."

"I haven't laid down in the grass since I was a kid. I can't wait to see how many ticks are on me."

"Don't you just love all the wild Yarrow around here?"

"Is that what it is?"

"Look at it all. You know, the Native Americans learned that if you crush it up, it stops bleeding."

"Ah. An astringent."

"Don't pick it!"

"I thought I snag some before it's too late."

"Too late for what?"

"I'm just going to tuck some in my shirt right here...."

"You're too cute. You know that?"

"Just trying to keep my heart in one piece, that's all."

"It's not going to work."

"I know."

Reward

He stood his ground.

The enemy shifted into position. Out of range. Deadly in their caution.

Together, they might have a chance. A small one. But if they both ran, they would surely be overtaken and brought down. So he stood his ground. At the very least, he could slow them down.

When the enemy stopped moving, he knew the strike would fly in the next few breaths.

He turned to offer one last reassurance. He saw how far the other soldier had already run.


(Photo taken at the Philadelphia Art Museum.)

Just Can't Get Enough

Boy I think about it every night and day
I'm addicted, want to jump inside your love
I wouldn't want to have it any other way
I'm addicted, and I just get enough
     --Black Eyed Peas, Just Can't Get Enough

The clutch.

Her body against him.

Arms grasping.

Squeezing.

The sensation carved down to the deepest layers in his brain.

As he laid there mixed in the sheets, the memory oppressed him. He got so close. Always so close. But just when it was going to be his forever, it slipped away. She drew back. Releasing. Panting.

He watched her now in the other room. Her nakedness moving. Glowing.

Already, it was rising in him again. He wanted to kneel, beg, possess, bewitch, devour.

She approached, eyes boring into him. The same tension hummed in her muscles as she climbed over.

Hair tickled down like pattering rain before a downpour.

Lightning flashed between them. Then the storm raged again.

Alive

She walks slowly across the young man's room
She said I'm ready for you
Why can't I remember anything to this very day?
Except the look, the look
You know where
Now I can't see, I just stare
     --Pearl Jam, Alive

He went back in time.

Surprising, really.

If he had befriended a genie, played with some wishes, or if he took better notes during Star Trek, it might make at least a bit of sense. But no. Truth is, he didn’t know how he got there. Or exactly when. Maybe he was napping. Dreaming. But that tight blue carpet under his feet sure didn’t feel like a dream.

And there he was. His young self. Sitting on the bed across the room.

Was he reading? Pondering? Sulking?

Clearly, the boy didn’t feel eyes on him from across the room. That lamp didn’t carve away very many shadows.

But there the fuck he was.

Jesus.

Here was the proverbial moment. The thing people wished for. Here on a polished platter. That moment when he could take himself aside and speak the GREAT WISDOM. The LESSONS OF LIFE. He could tell himself what not to do, what mistakes to avoid, and what people he'd be better off not knowing. He could FIX THINGS.

But he didn’t move towards the boy. His heart just pounded. Fast.

Because there was no wisdom. There was nothing to say. What the fuck had he really learned anyway?

Boy, it's actually worse than you realize. Sorry. Have a nice day.

Face it. He couldn’t be a father to himself. Or a mentor. Or a friend.

He would just go back. Leave the kid to his own thoughts. Let him muck it up. But that damned genie wasn’t showing up. Or that Star Trek episode.

If he did have a wish or two, maybe he could conjure up his elderly self (assuming he lived that long). Maybe THAT dude would finally have something inspiring to say.

Then again, that was a crock. That boy was stuck there.

He should just tell him to get those skills sharpened up faster. Get cracking.

There was a lot of work to do, and he could use the help.

Songbird

For you, there’ll be no more crying
For you, the sun will be shining
Because I feel that when I’m with you
It’s alright, I know it’s right
And the songbirds keep singing
Like they know the score
And I love you, I love you, I love you
Like never before

     --Haley Westenra, Songbird, (orig. Fleetwood Mac)

When he walked, people didn’t see the shadows.

They didn’t see the years, the volumes of thought, the observations, or the conundrums. They didn’t see the burns or disappointments or four tidy walls. Who knows what they saw.

But he powered his legs with the years, volumes, observations, conundrums, burns, disappointments, and four tidy walls.

* * *

She liked when he was around and liked it less when he wasn’t. Of course, she also liked to keep her emotions nicely at heel.

Once, she caught herself not listening when he was talking to her. She was imagining…something. And she quickly tucked that scary something back inside the cabinetry inside her head.

* * *

She liked the way he walked, regardless of what the others saw.

He was schooled in the construction of cabinetry.

That night, maybe they both sensed the barriers would be detonated.

Here Comes the Rain Again

I want to walk in the open wind
I want to talk like lovers do
Want to dive into your ocean
Is it raining with you?
     --Eurythmics, Here Comes the Rain Again

He walked the skeletal forest and dodged mud puddles on the trail.

The ground laid soft, punished by the long winter. Twilight blue inked the sky, but light still blushed along the horizon.

Robins flashed nervous wings in the trees. The rest of the flock hurried through the wet leaves.

He broke into open fields and checked his watch. Too late now. Even if he turned back, he wouldn’t beat the drippy spring darkness.

Along the edge of the old cemetery, he stopped. These stones were forgotten, far from the road. He stood, not bothering to count the seconds. The day was slipping away.

He didn’t hear, because the ground was soft.

He didn't hear until her words pushed aside the silence.

“So. You still come here too?” she said.

He closed his eyes a moment before turning around.

Luminescence

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like that. You know what I mean."

"I don't know. This is just the way I look."

"Do you have to have the most intense eyes I've ever seen?"

"I do?"

"Am I'm blushing right now?"

"Maybe you are."

"Stop! Do you want me to hide my face?"

"What else I'm supposed to do?"

"What are you thinking when you stare at me like that? It must be something bad."

"You want to know what I was thinking?"

"Yes."

"If it was something bad?"

"Stop torturing me!"

"Well, if you really want to know, I was thinking about the deep ocean. Miles down where light never reaches. I was thinking about how organisms drift in the most exquisite darkness. But some of them make their own light. And when one of those passes another, wham. Think of how dazzling that must be."

[...]

"So you really can't blame me for staring, can you?"

White Rabbit

Remember what the Dormouse said
Feed your head
Feed your head
      --Jefferson Airplane, White Rabbitt

She was flesh and incense.

He was a lava lamp with the lights turned low.

She laughed at her wine.

He danced with the bottle. Slowly.

The hours clicked like knitting needles, and the music kept playing with what sounded like the same song.

He floated on incense and drowned in flesh.

She molded and caressed lava with her hands.

Big Dinner Horizons

"Where are you from?" she said.

He shrugged. "Nowhere, really."

"Around here?"

"No. Rural. Very rural. More cows than people."

"I'm a suburban girl," she said. "Nothing terribly exciting. Not like here. It took me a while to get used to the city."

"Well, cows aren't especially exciting either," he said. "I remember when the mailman would come. That was exciting."

"That's cute."

"I spent a lot of time outside," he said. "I used to think about what it felt like. Way out there. Being part of someplace so open."

She watched him.

He kind of liked it.

"Do you miss it?" she said.

He deliberated for a few moments. More about whether to tell the truth than the answer. "Yes," he said finally. "And I never thought I would."

Blue Spanish Sky

It was a sad, slow Spanish song
I knew the words, but I sang them wrong
The one I love has left and gone without me
     --Chris Isaak, Blue Spanish Sky

Even as he kissed her neck, he knew it would be one of the last.

The midday hotel simmered in silence, waiting for the heat of the afternoon. In the room, the air was spiced, and the air curtained to exotic red.

So strange how in this moment, all of her dark elixirs were poured for him, but in a few minutes, and twelve steps out into the Mediterranean street, she would already be thousands of miles away.

The midday hotel simmered the first of the afternoon heat.

And he did not pull the red curtain aside to watch her go.

When the Water Trickles

“You should go outside. It’s not good to sit so long in here.”

The girl didn’t answer. Squares of light from a window illuminated her legs tight against the chair.

“The snow is crisp outside. Do you want to go sledding?”

The girl shook her head.

Her mother sighed in the doorway. “It’s going to be dark soon." The old floorboards creaked as the woman walked back to the farmhouse stairs.

The girl peered out at the sharp-angled sun.

The quilt on her bed rustled across the room as something unseen stood up.

“Can’t you stay?” she said.

The smoky silhouette of a boy stepped into the light at the window. She knew he was watching the position of the sun.

“I’ll find you when the snow clears,” she said.

But what if she did? Some long dead boy buried in mud and forgotten.

The shadow of a hand fell on her lap. Hers joined it.

It thinned to just another line of windowpane.

Rid of Me

You're not rid of me
No, you're not rid me
I'll make you lick my injuries
     --P.J. Harvey, Rid of Me

He drank alone at the bar.

The crowd bumped him. Oozed and churned. An elbow pushed into ear, then apologized.

Words scrolled across the television screen above the bottles of alcohol. It was an on-going transcript for a baseball game. Reading the commentary was even more ludicrous than listening to it.

He trailed his fingers on the sweat of his dwindling drink.

His mind wandered to the memory of her ankle. And the smoothness of her inner thigh. And even deeper where her breath trembled with a mix of fire and overload.

An elbow pushed into his ear.

And didn’t apologize.