The Clarity of Night

The Third Floor

2009-11-30T00:02:00.001-05:00

I dreamed about the house again. Especially, the third floor. Why is it always the third floor? The first floor has the door, that much is obvious. But it also is the beginning. The shake of inside versus outside. And the inside is wrong. And then there are stairs. So curious a thing. You might hesitate at the top of stairs before running down. If you need to run down. Stairs are so close to falling. Controlled falling, actually. One little freefall, and you catch yourself. Two little freefalls, and you catch yourself. What if you don't catch yourself? Because on the second floor there is fear. Thicker than the first floor. I feel it in the walls. Like something is sliding through the lumber. It might pour from the ceiling to block the door behind me. It might wet my terrors underfoot. It might bleed into the frame of any window I choose to see. But most of all, I feel the almost. The evil not yet here, but close. The watching. Just a few short steps from now. Like my razor's edge of control is a mercy it can rip away. And because it doesn't rip it away, it laughs. But on the third floor, it's different. So very different. The third floor is inside the inside. So not the door. The outside world no longer coherent, far from the maze to the meat grinder door where reality is bloodied and pulped. My heart is beating on the third floor. Hard. The almost is so close. No farther than a neck kiss when you already feel the breath. The walls breathe with something not insane. Something trapped and tired and stewed to tranquil hate. But only while it sleeps. And it doesn't want to sleep anymore. Two sets of stairs from the third floor are no escape. A cliff is no escape. It's just a trade of deaths, one for another. A slivery hot death smashing into ground. A howling, scrambling death when your mind can no longer stay. But I hold it together on the third floor. I endure. The gnawing terror stops just before bone. I walk and endure, and curiously often, I go back.

Twittering

2009-11-27T00:03:00.004-05:00

For anyone on Twitter, I'm branching out! If you'd like to follow each other, my user name is ClarityofNight, and you can find me HERE.

There will be some content only available there (in addition to general nonsense). I'm also cooking up something I'm calling Machine Gun Poetry just for the Twitter format. It's a series of single words followed by the culmination in all caps. Here's an example:

restless russet chattering sandpaper veins bending bare clicks abandoned FOREST

See you over there!

Thanks for Giving

2009-11-25T00:02:00.002-05:00

HAPPY THANKSGIVING, EVERYONE!!

Beer Philosophers #4: You're a Chicken

2009-11-23T00:02:00.002-05:00

"I saw an interesting news story today."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. They're doing a study on whether chickens are unhappy when they're raised in cages to lay eggs."

"I wonder what it feels like to lay an egg."

"Remember when you ate all that popcorn?"

"Oh."

"Anyway, they're wondering if the chickens essentially go insane."

"Chickens always look kind of insane to me. Making their heads go like this. Like this. Like this."

"The animal rights people are screaming that farmers pack nine chickens in a cage. They can't move or spread their wings."

"...and they scratch. And scratch. And scratch."

"Dude. Sit down. You're freaking me out."

"Sorry."

"The farmers, on the other hand, claim the chickens dig it. Very calm and comfortable. Because the chickens are caged right after birth. They never know anything different. Kind of cozy."

"Awww. I like cozy."

"Dude. Seriously."

"Sorry."

"Here's the important part. Are you listening? Think about getting into that cage. Think about how important that precise moment is."

"I'm thinking that's the moment I run."

"You're standing in line with all those newly hatched chicks. Farmer comes along and onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnine. That's it. Game over. You're whole universe mapped out in the count of nine."

"I suppose you can't trade anybody off later."

"Nope."

"I'd probably get the guy who farts."

"Exactly! Nine bodies shoulder to shoulder. Up close and personal."

"I guess I wouldn't get the 'guy' who farts. Male chickens don't lay eggs, right?"

"You might totally luck out and get some super cool chickens to hang with. You could rag on the boss. 'Stick this one in your omelet, asshole!' Or, you could get eight of the most stupid, evil, grotesque chickens that ever graced a McNugget."

"I don't want to be a chicken."

"Not if you have to live in a cage, man."

"Amen."

"But then again, are we so different? We only meet who we're going to meet, and that's it. More than nine, yes. But most of us stop trying after a while, don't we?"

"I stopped with you."

"And our cage is just a lot harder to see."

Game Friday: Comfort Food

2009-11-20T00:02:00.004-05:00

Welcome to another fine Friday! Today, I'm inviting you all over to dinner!!

If this were a real dinner, I would do all the cooking. (I'm not bad. Really.) But this internet dinner is going to be potluck. Here's the game for today.

In the comments, take the next letter of the alphabet and give us a food that starts with that letter*. Make it something that means something to you. Something that evokes some kind of emotion. Then, as you sit down to your food, let us hear a little bit about what is swirling in your head. I'll start with A.

A

Apples. (I know, boring.) But nothing beats a tart, wild apple. My father introduced me to them at my grandparents' house, where they grew at the edge of the forest along their road. In high school, when I used to golf a lot in the evenings, I'd load up my bag from a tree on the course and eat them as I played. Now, I have this weird wish to have my own fruit trees. For years, I've been working on a cherry tree and a small orchard near our cabin. So far, my only big success are blueberry bushes. Maybe next year! (I say that every year.)

(*For the tough letters (q, x, y & z), if the word contains the sound, that's good enough. Or just skip it.)

Brain Surgery

2009-11-18T00:01:00.002-05:00

Measure me a lobotomy
just above the eyes
they were fashionable once
with a man and a van
traveling right to your school
calling out the detention boys

hold still
don't mind the ice pick
they're cheap
and sterile with gasoline
detention will be over
forever
with one mallet thwap

I'm looking for connections to snip
tracing a crumpled map
of detours and burst water mains
but where to cut?
a snip over here
and I turn a numb cheek to another slap
a snip over there
and an enemy flutters away in flames

Under an Oak Tree on a Fall Morning

2009-11-16T00:02:00.003-05:00

"Hi."

"Hi."

"I didn't mean to bother you."

"You're not bothering me."

"It's not like I'm usually in the habit of approaching strange women hanging out under oak trees."

"I'm not usually in the habit of hanging out under oak trees."

"Not that I mean 'strange' in a bad way."

"Right."

"Just in the sense that I don't know you."

"I understand. Strange, as in strange men."

"Yeah. Exactly."

"Thought so."

"It's really a beautiful day, isn't it? With the leaves...."

"You didn't come over here to tell me it's a beautiful day, did you?"

"No."

"Right."

"I came over here because...."

"Yes?"

"Well, actually...."

"I think you came over here because you somehow knew I would be here."

"What?"

"Don't look so surprised."

"I...."

"I'm right, aren't I?"

"I was.... I just...."

"Stop. Just stop. Take a deep breath."

"Okay. Okay."

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I knew you were going to say that. Tell me to take a deep breath. What's going on?"

"What am I going to say next?"

"You're going to tell me to sit with you."

"Interesting."

"You're going to say something to me, and I'm going to say something back, but we're really not going to be listening to each other."

"Very interesting."

"And then I'm going to look down, and without thinking, your fingers are going to have slipped into my hand. You're going to look surprised too."

"Now I'm having a little trouble breathing."

"And then I'm going to tell you to take a deep breath."

"Okay. Okay."

"So what should we do now?"

"You should sit down with me. And we should get started."

Tuck Me on the Eastern Side

2009-11-13T00:05:00.004-05:00

tuck me on mountains
memorials to the climb
I will bed the dawn

Leaving

2009-11-11T00:02:00.009-05:00

Ulrich Johns waited to board the plane to Alaska.

To die.

He sat in front of immense glass overlooking the dark tarmac. A coffee machine hissed behind him. A lone worker yawned behind the counter. The only other early passenger mumbled a sleepy message on his cell phone.

Five thirty five on the clock. Even the glow of the digital numbers looked tired. Below, a man dragged the hose from a refueling truck in the predawn twilight.

The lights of Philadelphia speckled the distance.

An unattended world blinking time.

Automation turned the wheels while people slept with the reigns of power tucked under pillows.

But human power was a joke. Unless you celebrated chaos. Left, right, forward, backward, start, never finish, yell, kiss, fall, birth, abuse, exalt, crush, humiliate. Soon, alarm clocks would ring. Drooled faces would roll out of pillowcase craters. Hands would slap snooze alarms and gather back the fluttering threads of dreams.

And Ulrich sat outside of it all. Above the tarmac of Philadelphia International Airport. Like a brooding god. Never in. Never part of. Seeing patterns. Seeing the march of causes and reactions. Seeing the strings pulling millions of marionette skins.

His mechanical calm waned as dawn seeped with pale yellow and infused the black with grey. Families arrived. A breathless little girl bounced into a nearby seat. A father squeezed the bridge of his nose and told another to stop jumping. Ulrich closed his eyes as the attendants opened the boarding station and tapped keys on the computer.

With the night still alive in his mind, he tried to reach beyond the immense glass. Beyond the fueling planes. Beyond the rolling lights dueling on the runways.

He imagined that he felt electricity. Switches switching. Computer code chopping human blundering into manageable packets of perfection.

But no.

The crowd heated to a simmer. The noise tapped cracks into the clear glass of his thoughts.

Alaska would be so different. The endless rainforests of the Tongass National Forest. Trails for hundreds of miles. Deep silence so profound that the northern lights sizzle in the sky.

If only he could die under the northern lights.

Somehow they would accept him. Somehow they would touch the poetic reds and ghostly greens buried in his soul. Somehow his tattered emotions would finally be soothed.

At some point, the plane arrived, and the attendants called for first class passengers. Ulrich rose. No way he was going to fly to the wide beauty of his funeral in coach.

(As an experiment, I'm going to be sharing pieces of my new novel-in-progress, but only scenes which have merit as stand alone pieces. If you find something you particularly like in these scenes, such as a mood, style, or theme, please let me know. On the flip side, if you find something you particularly don't like in these selections, please do the same. Some scenes will feature Nami, a woman who finds herself budding with profound powers over the Earth and its elements. Other scenes will feature Ulrich, a man who embarks on a one-way hike into the rain forests of Alaska to die. This particular scene has the distinction of being the opening of the novel.)

A Hunter's Mysticism

2009-11-09T00:02:00.001-05:00

~~A forest is never the same twice. It's always changing. Choose your path before you walk, and see where every step will fall.

~~Never go backward. Only forward. No matter how hard the terrain ahead.

~~Know what colors and textures a plant never makes.

~~The more patient animal usually wins, whether human or prey.

~~Never trust a sound in the wind. Like a mirage in the desert, a breeze in the forest is a siren's song of lies.

(Pictures from Wayne County, Pennsylvania, U.S. Infrared trail camera.)

Thoughts in an Elevator

2009-11-06T00:02:00.003-05:00

He smells like sauerkraut.

Interesting.

What smells like sauerkraut, except sauerkraut?

Eleven thirty in the morning is a little early for sauerkraut, isn't it?

Eat sauerkraut. Make strong like bull.

His mom probably makes sauerkraut.

(Looks down.)

Oh God. He's wearing tights.

High Voltage

2009-11-04T00:02:00.002-05:00

you can meddle with live wires
puffed with intuitive electricity
you've dodged the lightning
and learned to shed the rain
but my hand is ash
blackened down to no-more toes
the path of least resistance
flows from flesh to thirsty ground

Beer Philosophers #3

2009-11-02T00:02:00.005-05:00

"Dude. You know how they say that if you die a martyr, you get 72 virgins in the afterlife?"

"Maybe. Yeah. Kind of like a suicide bomber retirement plan, I guess."

"I wish I lived over there when they announced that. When they made the big announcement."

"Why?"

"Think about it! 72 virgins!"

"That's a lot of virgins."

"You can say that again."

"Wouldn't it be enough to have, say, three?"

"That's not the point. Where do you think they get all those virgins? 72 and 72 and 72. Adds up pretty fast."

"Definitely."

"Does anybody ever consider, though, that paradise for these martyrs does double duty as hell for virgins?"

"Huh.... Excellent point."

"Think about it. Getting rounded up with 71 other girls and being assigned to some scrubby asshole. Talk about adding insult to injury."

"As if dying a virgin wasn't bad enough."

"So, imagine the day they figure all this out and make the big announcement. At some point, the virgins must figure out what's going to happen to them if they die before doing the deed."

"Yeah. Bad day."

"So, if you're one of them. What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that being a virgin is serious liability."

"And?"

"Well, I'm thinking I need to jump on anything that moves."

"Now you're seeing my logic."

"Wow. Millions of them."

"Yep. Millions."

"Actually, you'd be doing them a great service. You'd be saving them from hell."

"Beautiful, I know."

(Contemplating awhile.)

"Dude, why are you shaking your head? You're a genius."

"In all seriousness, the world is a fucked up place."

"I'll drink to that."

Succubus

2009-10-30T00:02:00.008-04:00

You slip into pudding warmth. That's how it begins.

Down below. Rolling on thighs. Up the soles of your feet and between toes. Down spinal channels to suck mango hollows in your brain.

This dream--more delicious than sleep. The pudding's progress. The knees. The oh-Jesus trail from thigh, to inners, to melting down forbidden valleys where heat is leaping, pulsing, pulsing, harder. To living stone.

The sheets flutter off. No thinking. Ankles drag you down from the pillow. But strangely, it's not strange. Limp arms pull above your head. Helpless on the mattress. Elbows hover, about to beat a wingless flight.

Night air tingles across your underarms.

Shins drag open.

You rumble with earthquakes. Attacks entangled in surrender. Cock curving. Stomach writhing. You're splitting with rises and falls. Rising.

Her heat is a thump of weight and muscle.

You wake.

Your honey-and-whisper eyes crack, and you see her. An angel of bronze and rippling. Beautiful enough to weep.

Now now now now. The seed of a hundred gods bellows between your legs. Never so large. Never so beautiful. Fingers reach and part her sculpture. Unveiling. Glistening. Stretching to engulf you.

She slices downward. The heave catapults your back from bed. Arms still cuffed. Arching.

She destroys you. A landslide. An obliteration. Strength to rend muscle and bone. Bed flaps from floor. You roar a lung-rending rhythm.

Fast. Fast. Fast.

So fast.

You spasm and flail arms. Then grip. White claws on her back.

On the precipice, nothing moves. She is all. No motion. All freedom crushed and asphyxiation.

In her death squeeze, you explode.

Mouth torn wide. Soundless, between her breasts.

Then she rips away, your mind yanked with her, your must-have-forever splattered at her feet. Your body bubbles up from the mattress.

A bronze angel in one blink.

In the next, she is silvery skin and blackness and purple eyes. Still beautiful. The leering and licking demon.

Becoming male.

Caressing and tickling sulphurs into your semen.

Then silver enfolds shadows. Shadows drain into a distant light. A nothing eases outside your window.

Somewhere, in another bed, Incubus breath falls on a woman's musky dark.

And that is how the warmth begins.

(Based on the legend of the Succubus, a demon which takes female form in order to lie with a man and steal his semen. After twisting the seed, it then takes male form (the Incubus), which visits a woman to conceive a demon child.)

Beware of night visitors in the dark rooms of this Halloween night!

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!

By the Lamp Would be Lovely

2009-10-28T00:02:00.003-04:00

If I were carved wood
a polished accessory
I'd hold drinks unspilled

The Beer Philosophers #2

2009-10-26T00:02:00.004-04:00

"What's wrong?"

"Just drop it. Okay?"

"Did someone piss in your beer or something?"

"I said, drop it."

"All I said is that she's frigging hot."

"Got it. Move on."

"And, that I want to fuck her."

"See. That's what I mean."

"What?"

"I'm done."

"What??"

"I'm DONE!"

"Come on. You wouldn't fuck her? Seriously!"

"I'm not going to answer that."

"I'm just being honest."

"Oh, I know."

"For starters, she's get these completely unbelievable--"

"Stop!"

"And after I spent a while there, I would go on to her--"

"ENOUGH!"

"Why are you shaking your head?"

"I'm going to bean you in the head with this bottle. I fucking swear."

"Are you gay? You know, I'm open to that sort of thing. It doesn't threaten me at all. Well, except for that time when we.... When we.... Um, never mind."

"Are you finished?"

"Pretty much."

"Are you finished?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"So. Would you fuck her or not?"

(Throws beer.)

"Holy shit! You almost hit me!! For real!!!"

The Boy Who Sprouted

2009-10-23T00:02:00.003-04:00

i once knew a boy
who lived in a mushroom house
in a mushroom village of nightshade
he came to my window
on the wings of the frost
sailing a maple leaf kite he made
into my hands, he painted
a wriggling gift of spores
then died to a one-cricket serenade

The Matrix

2009-10-21T00:10:00.002-04:00

Have you seen The Matrix movies? Remember the Operators? They are the folks who sit in front of monitors watching the matrix computer code flutter down the monitors. But they don't see code. They see the rendering itself. Code becomes streets, becomes skyscrapers, becomes hot dogs sizzling on a vendor's cart. The Operators look past the code to see their teams in the virtual world.

I see writing that way.

When it's right, I don't see the words, the letters, the punctuation. I see a world shining through, melting the harsh typing away. When it's not right, I see sentences in front of me. Bars of text locking me outside.

In order for my words to disappear, they have to be arranged just so. Their beat must synchronize with the virtual word. Their melody must play the same overture. Their shape must build the shadows and highlights.

Writing is a lulling song to the brain. A dream with our eyes wide open.

That is my number one goal.

How do you weave your written dreams?

Emotion Study #1

2009-10-19T00:02:00.004-04:00

"The hate keeps me warm," she said.

"Wow."

She shrugged.

"That's a pretty expensive fuel, isn't it?"

"I have it in abundant supply."

"But think about the pollution," he said. "What it doesn't consume, it destroys."

"I'd be destroyed without it."

"Wow."

"Yeah. Wow."

"But really. Is life so cold that you need something like hate to keep you warm? What would happen if you didn't have the hate?"

"Maybe 'keeping me warm' isn't the best way to put it. It keeps me strong. It pushes away people who completely fail me. It protects me when nothing else will." She smiled. "It'll probably protect me from you, eventually."

"But what if you let it go?" he said.

"I've thought about that. A lot."

"So? What would happen?"

"What if you woke up, and your house was on fire? You only had a minute and half before the flames swept in and burned you alive. What if you woke up with those 90 seconds to live, and you realized that you were paralyzed from the waist down? How would that feel?"

He contemplated. "Total panic. Terror and confusion. Probably utter madness. You would go insane."

"You wouldn't make it out paralyzed, right? You wouldn't make it out without your legs."

"No."

"The hate is my legs. It gets me out."

He sat back.

She looked down at her hands. She felt his eyes. He didn't speak.

"But I don't want it anymore," she said. "It only makes it worse." She sighed a shaky sigh. "I wish I knew how to let it go."

Cozy

2009-10-16T00:01:00.009-04:00

light a fire
in the autumn light
yellow consumes
the futile fight
save the embers and retire
to refresh on their bitter fumes

Nami's Dream

2009-10-14T00:02:00.006-04:00

She dreamed.

She dreamed of water trickling from the surface of a lake. Water folding into air. Water and heat. The swirls of delicious humidity broke from the soup of molecules and flew. Below, verdant reflections glimmered in the watery mirror. Reflections of the forest crowns. Of the sky deconstructed.

Her own molecules wove amongst them. Rubbing and writhing with just enough passion, just enough potential, to shatter the urge to stay and swim. A heartbeat--just enough life to fuel the evaporation. Her heartbeat. Slow and peaceful. The air became an extension of the lake as she dissolved. She looked up and knew she was the birth of clouds. The bearer of water vapor. The great, great grandmother of rain.

Mother of the waters, she smiled. The contentment melted into the reaches of blue above her. Birds rode high. Kings of the invisible currents. A bending line of geese wheeled in their search for more exciting waters.

The clouds drank from her. Her elemental gift. But did she really want to go? Today, did she want to surrender to the great halls of wind?

Yes, she could go. She could paint moisture into great canvases of grey. She could brew thunderstorms and crumble them at the edge of the Sahara. She could seed the lush green blanketing the forests of Alaska.

She--

She flinched at a hard touch on her face. Cold and jarring.

Her eyes snapped open to a color like mist. Impenetrable. Her hands jerked up to protect her face, tingling from the hit, but also smacked not more than an inch from her body.

Something blocked her ascent. A wall. She frowned at the mist.

Where was she? Her eyes stung and the intoxicating warmth ended.

Had she been sleeping?

Hands moved along a smooth surface. Cool and smooth.

Yes, she was dreaming of water again. But where was she? The floor?

She turned her head toward the door. At least, where the door should be. Instead, she gazed down the length of a ceiling fan blade. The pull cord dangled up toward the....

Up?

She frowned. Disoriented. She pushed off white surface to back away, or to slide her knees under her, but there was no weight. No real gravity to anchor her.

She craned her head over her shoulder and saw the dark covers of her bed six feet below. She was floating over the pulled sheets and her thickly breathing husband.

Her hands flashed up to grab hold, but slapped nothing but cobwebs and paint.

Her fingers shot backward to break the fall.

But no fall came. Instead, she rose and bumped her cheek against the ceiling.

Her eyes widened. Her lips parted. A warmth bubbled up against her back. Like spa water, but softer, a more gossamer touch. The more she centered on the sensation and deep-breathed away the fear, the stronger it pressed.

Her face flattened. Her toes turned to the side. The pressure forced her mouth in a ridiculous, clown shape.

More. She wanted more. So much power, if only she could wrap her fingers around it.

She followed the flow deep with her mind. Where the energy piped from magma oceans and a liquid iron core. She tried to tighten the focus, to bend it, to alter the fountain cresting against her back. But the jet surged and snapped, turning volatile. It slashed like a runaway fire hose, twirling the fan, billowing the curtains, and blowing a stack of laundry across the floor. She fell, ceiling to bed in one gasping plunge.

Her weight slapped the waterbed and folded in. It curved and cradled her deep.

The crater rebounded and shoved her upward.

The impact rolled through the mattress. The wave pushed her husband up and tipped him off the side of the bed.

He disappeared. Two heartbeats after the crash, he howled.

Nami couldn't breathe. She missed hitting anything hard on the way down. Even so, her ears rang, probably from her brain ramming the back of her skull.

"Owwwww!" her husband whined in a groggy voice.

Nami blinked at the ceiling. A shadow marked where her head had touched. She may have drooled.

"What the hell happened?" he said.

She cleared her throat. Tried to form words. "Did you...fall?" she managed.

"I fell," he said to himself, not hearing her.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Her heart pounded harder. Did he see her hovering at the ceiling?

"Jesus Christ," he said. "I fell."

"You scared the hell out of me!" she said, surprised at the anger out of nowhere.

"I scared you? I scared you? Oh, well, I'm dreadfully sorry."

She flushed, and her voice took a blade edge. "Why don't you be more careful?"

"I think I fractured my hip."

"You didn't fracture your hip."

"How the hell would you know?" he said.

It sounded like he rolled over. More exclamations as he tried to get up.

"Did you push me?" he said.

Her mouth fell open. Shocked. Or ashamed. "What?"

"I said, 'did you push me?'"

The anger roared bright. Too bright. "What an awful thing to say!"

"Did you?" he said.

His head rose next to the bed. His hair stuck up on one side.

"Why would you even ask that?" she said. "Why would you even think that?"

"You didn't answer."

"And I'm not going to!"

His shoulder worked up and down. He must be rubbing his hip as he knelt. "I just have this weird feeling," he said. "Like I was laying there. And something knocked me off the bed."

"And that's enough for you to accuse me?"

"I don't know...," he said. "Yes."

"You were dreaming! Too bad you didn't pick a softer landing."

"You wouldn't be giving me shit if I fractured my hip," he said.

"You did not fracture your hip!"

He eased himself up onto the mattress. Lots of grimaces and grunts.

"Just go to sleep," she said. "If you want, I'll order you a bedrail tomorrow."

"Charming," he said. "As always."

"You know, feel free to sleep downstairs. The couch is closer to the floor."

"Sweet dreams," he said, yanking the blanket over him. The sudden tension caught her neck and choked her.

She punched at the blankets to fix her side, then crossed her arms over her chest.

His back faced her. It was generally easier that way.

In a short time, he snored. She didn't stay awake because she was angry. That flame dwindled and flickered out sooner than she expected. The guilt did too. What finally lulled her was the sound of the wind. Not outside the window. Nothing stirred the silent leaves on the trees. She imagined she heard the howl of the jet stream bending from Kentucky up across the northeast. An accident to notice it at first. Like a train pounding the tracks far over the nighttime hills.

This time, she didn't feel the dripping dread on the edges of her perception. When she let her mind range far.

Now, when she caught the wind, her mind soared ahead of the Earth's spin and glimpsed an early sunrise. Her eyes closed, and her dreams remained dry, un-enchanted by the touch of water. In the hours before the sun lit her window, she sailed. She supped on the brash strength of air.

(I'm trying something I never tried before. I'm going to be sharing pieces of my new novel-in-progress, but only scenes which have merit as stand alone pieces. If you find something you particularly like in these scenes, such as a mood, style, or theme, please let me know. On the flip side, if you find something you particularly don't like in these selections, please do the same. Some scenes will feature Nami, a woman who finds herself budding with profound powers over the Earth and its elements. Other scenes will feature Ulrich, a man who embarks on a one-way hike into the rain forests of Alaska to die. Later, I'll be removing these drafts as I combine and integrate the work. I hope you enjoy these little forays!)

Ghost in the Torchlight

2009-10-12T00:02:00.000-04:00

After nightfall, I walked out into the black forest. I carried four torches up the grassy road to leave them, one by one. We call it the "Spooky Walk." A haunted walk from one halo to another. Little islands of orange fire with gauntlets of watchful woods between. It was a whim years ago, but the kids never forgot. They clamored for it this time again, so I carefully crept through the dark. My breath fogged in the cold.

When we were ready. Our younger daughter wanted to carry a lantern flashlight, but that would be cheating. She turned it to a dim red. No help at all.

Walk slow. Walk slow. You can trip. You can easily wander off the road. Then, the trees take you. Get lost, and you just wait. Wait for the unseen to claim you.

As we approached the fourth torch, the deepest in, two of us saw a shape fly in the dark. Our younger daughter declared "a bat," and swore it landed in a tree. I agreed, a bat, but scoffed at the idea of it landing.

We stood and talked by the torch. Shapes sparkled off in the darkness. But something bothered me about the ghostly flutter in the air. A little too big. A little too bright. We talked again about it landing in the tree above us. I looked into the starry branches. I felt a hazy presence up there.

I turned up a flashlight I'd stowed in my pocket. A pale barred owl stared down. Less than ten yards away. It cocked it head. Curious. Not flying despite our intrusion. Our clamor right under its tree.

A few minutes later, we took back the torch. We unlit the forest. We sat by the campfire back at the cabin and listened to the owl's sleepy serenade.

(Saturday, October 10th, 9:00 p.m.)

Game Friday: Ray of Light

2009-10-09T00:02:00.006-04:00

How's everyone feeling today? Another week is signed, sealed, and delivered. As Paul McCartney said, let it be. (Amen, brother.)

So, today's topic is your personal ray of light. What little (or not so little) something are you looking forward to later today or tomorrow? What has your juices of anticipation flowing? If you've been feeling down, then I hope that ray of light is all the brighter.

For me: Aine and I and the offspring are driving up to the cabin through the Poconos. The mountains should be moving to full color. Since we normally drive up Friday night in the dark, it will be a treat to immerse in the miles of painted forests. (Also, I'm looking forward to seeing our older daughter ride her new dirt bike. Vroom!)

What plans have your happy sensors tingling?

What If, Would You?

2009-10-07T00:02:00.002-04:00

"What if I showed you a picture of an Amishman?"

"What if you did?"

"Would you comment on the Friar Tuck beard and how much they must save on shaving cream?"

"I might."

"Would you kiss a pig?"

"Is it washed?"

"How do you wash a pig?"

"Then no."

"What would you do if I killed you."

"Die."

"Interesting."

"Really?"

"No. Back to the Amishman."

"He's gone."

"Where did he go?"

"There's a hill, and his homemade scooter is flying through the gravel. He's scaring the pigs."

"Have you ever seen a scared pig?"

"On the Wizard of Oz."

"Yeah, that's right. Dorothy fell in."

"She shouldn't walk on the fence."

"You shouldn't walk on the fence."

"How else can you get to a place without stepping on one side or the other?"

"Good point."

"I would be an Amishman."

"No you wouldn't."

"I could pretend."

"If you pretended to be an Amishman, how would you be any different from a real Amishman?"

"I wouldn't."

"Would you go to Hawaii?"

"Yes."

"Would you go to Hawaii naked?"

"Yes."

"Would you go to Hawaii naked without having any spending money?"

"Yes."

"Would you kiss a pig in Hawaii?"

"Before or after the luau?"

"After."

"Yes."

"Before?"

"No."

"Would you kiss an Amishman?"

"I'd kiss the one in the picture."

"No you wouldn't."

"I'd kiss his scooter."

"You should be ashamed of yourself."

"Don't insult the man's scooter."

Crave

2009-10-05T00:01:00.006-04:00

She painted the color of his eyes with imaginary fingertips. Grey circles. Like targets boring into her. Or a coyote's stare through autumn underbrush.

Across the table, she dipped into the water of those eyes as he spoke. And as he didn't speak. Never did she feel the nervous weight to look away. So strange. Her usual reserve fluttered somewhere above her. Like laundry waltzing on the wind. Clean and apart from her. Fears of exposure rinsed away.

She had to sit close to him. Surely he understood.

He didn't shrink away.

Any farther and her hands might claw for him. This close, he was within reach. The churning thoughts of wanting, needing, would not snap and rip through her. The mountain of emptiness not crushing her.

She touched the martini to her numb lips and the swaying dance of her senses. Was the heat from her? From his skin? The dark brush of hair darkened his chest near the shirt collar. The ripples in his neck glowed ruddy in the candlelight. She wanted to breathe there. Where his shirt cut into shadow. Where his chin would cradle her nestlings.

They say the last and greatest reward of love is the melting fire of joining. The thing that can't be undone. She shivered with it. Parted her lips to it.

And then he is not talking, and she is not rippling the pool of his eyes.

Her fingernails are denting his skin. Her thigh climbs over his.

She breathes where she so longed to breath. Her head is thrown back as he does the same. The waitress utters a partial word and turns away.

They must be right about the final reward, because she can't bear the cry, her rush to suicide. She needs to become. She needs to die.

Their lips collide and the table shoves away.

A check appears with his money splayed across it.

In the dark, down the halls, she shudder-groans. She will never again fear to crave.