Star Love

Her own betrayal was delivered. Tiny Igloos made of stars protected her visions, thoughts and dreams. She only let nightmares build sand castles as neighbours to the igloos once in a while... Once, accidentally, a fire started, too immerse and thick to destroy, but soon he arrived able to see what she saw as well. All night crawlers, nightmares, fires and scorn left weeping as it was defeated through a double crossed vision. Something that should never be toyed with. And the igloos grew taller, hiding more and protecting her light. He at her side speaking in rhymes soon becoming a rhythm, she giggled silently because she knew, she always knew. The puzzle was not and could not be complete. The things that distracted her also lured her in. The bitter faces, the unspoken ones, her denial of rest. Tip toeing through life. Somewhere along the way she caught herself in mirror image but slightly unknowingly she became more and more pure over time. Not just in her thoughts, on every pore, inch, foot, silver skin glowing. She was a symbol of all the true beauties, of all the fallen stars, planted here where your feet tread so lightly...and she can hear you. Patterns of love woven love in triangles thick like mercury and dripping an eternal light. He brings me stardust on early mornings dialing up the measures...Voices of dream speak on the other line "you are mine" they call out. Mysterious son of claws by your side, absolute beauty & psychic love. Trails of ritual and every day things. Cold becoming your body, withdrawn like the night. Afraid to touch you. Whispers of tomorrow. Slashes of your dreams before you. "Its ok honey, you can still take it out on me" as he kisses her wrist and hasn't said a word. His eyes tell all just as everyone's do. And old story book of an ashamed past. Glowing moon beams wanting to create. Only her garden grows stronger and someday will embody his dreams too. Her dream, merged to one beautiful element. For she forgot to give long ago, why not just forget. Maybe somehow she already had. And sorry meant it was ok.

A New Beginning

The sun was starting to sink below the smoke plagued, purple haze of the city’s skyline. Silhouetted black rooftops let their chimneys throw thick smoke into the smog-filled sky.
‘Goodbye London,’ Tom whispered, as he let his left hand drop to the grey leather suitcase propped up against his thigh. The sentimental frown plastered on his face told the story of a man who was leaving home, perhaps for the last time. Sentimentality was starting to eat away at his brain. As he stared out over the dusk urban jungle he realised how much he loved this town. The archives in his scrapbook mind seemed to be jumping off the shelves as he was hit with one happy memory after another.
For the hundredth time today Tom questioned his sanity. ‘What are you doing?’ the nagging (almost patronising) voice at the inner depths of his jumbled mind asked. The voice had started to sound eerily like his mothers. He checked his watch. She was late. Maybe she had decided not to come.
He was giving it all up. Giving up all of them; friends, family, colleagues. What would they say? How would they react? Was he just going to leave on a whim, no goodbyes, no opportunity for anyone to tell him he was crazy? If he listened they might just make him change his mind.
Leaving everything behind, for her, could he do that? His mind had turned around and walked back home already, but his heart had kept him here: standing alone on the old Oxford Road ready to leave everything, for her. He looked out over the fading skyline he loved. He hadn’t sat here and stared over this view enough. He cursed himself for leaving it all behind. It felt like the end of his adolescence, like leaving home for the last time.
He imagined his mother finding the note he had penned, cursing his selfishness as she read it. He pictured her blubbing as she paced relentlessly around her shoebox kitchen wondering what on Earth he thought he was doing. This was ridiculous!
Tom checked his watch again. She was ten minutes late. Maybe she had changed her mind. Like the disappearing red sun dominating the dusk sky Tom felt like he was sinking; thoughts were spinning around his aching brain at a hundred miles an hour.
It might be all for nothing anyway, this trudge down memory lane: she had changed her mind, she wasn’t coming.
‘Hazel,’ he whispered, ‘please don’t let me down, this is hard enough already.’
Car after car crawled by; the fumes of the rush hour traffic gave the air a musky taste which lingered at the back of his throat. A lump was starting to form there as he remembered the times he and the boys had painted this damn town red from top to toe. Was that all behind him now, was he really about to draw a line under those times? The hairs on the backs of his broad neck rose to attention and a chill ran the length of his spine as he pictured each one of their faces. He loved them, they weren’t the kind of friends you just left behind for any girl. But she was special.
His mind then turned to Hazel. She was possibly the best friend any man could have. He thought of the ways she had made him laugh; no matter what angst he was cradling in his paranoid mind she could always evoke a cheeky grin. She was the only girl he had ever met who always knew what to say. But, more often than not, she didn’t need to say anything, for her eloquent smile was enough to cure all his shallow anxieties and make him smile.
He checked his watch for the third time and saw that she was now twelve minutes late. He closed his eyes. Had she ever let him down before? No, never. Had she changed her mind? Tom started to believe that maybe all this worry had been for nothing. Maybe tomorrow morning his normal life would continue on its cyclic path and this adventure would turn out to be nothing more than a pipe dream. He prayed that tonight his new life would begin. In three hours time he hoped to be flying away from this life at thirty thousand feet and into another world.
Suddenly, from behind him, screeching across the black tarmac, lights sporadically flashing in exuberance, a white Sedan sped into view. ‘Hazel,’ he squealed. She was here. Tom let out a sigh of relief, but simultaneously his heart started pounding like a jackhammer as his adventure had been thrown back into life. The white Sedan had brought with it a nostalgic tidal wave that drowned him as he turned and said a quiet ‘farewell’ to the streets he had grown up in.
The car door flew open as hazel bounded round to greet him. Her bedraggled hair cascaded over her slight shoulders and down her lightly tanned back in thick brunette waves. She had always been special to him; they had always had a special bond that went deeper than just friendship. She hugged him tightly, her breasts squeezing the breath from his tight chest as she clung on, as if for dear life.
‘I thought you’d changed your mind,’ he croaked.
‘Of course not,’ she smiled, ‘I was stuck in the damn traffic. You really think I would let you down?’
‘You never have,’ Tom winked.
Hazel looked deeply into his tired blue eyes. She knew this had been hard for him. ‘You know what they’ll say?’
‘Yeah,’ he muttered. He had thought of little else.
She squeezed his hand and gave him that smile, the one that told him this was the right thing to do.
He loved her and he needed to be with her. Every muscle in his body yearned to be alone with her under the lazy Spanish sun. His body now ached to feel her soft skin skate across it. Her beautiful body never failed to entice him and her soft caring nature invigorated him. She was the most perfect girl he had ever met. He would travel to the end of the Earth for her.
Hazel grabbed his bustling suitcase and tossed it nonchalantly into the back seat. ‘We had better get going if we are to catch that flight, Slugger’ she teased.
‘Yeah, sure,’ sighed Tom as he climbed into the passenger seat.
‘You sure this is the right thing to do?’ Hazel asked.
Tom closed his eyes and imagined Marietta waiting for him on the other side; her beautiful, deep brown eyes making him dance inside. He thought of her soft voice and warm smile. ‘Yes’ he whispered, ‘It really is.’
‘I’ll miss you’ she whispered.
He smiled. ‘I’ll miss you too.’

Two Halves of the Orange

I promised to marry him. Ever since I was a three-year-old princess with the world wrapped around my little finger, Xethro has been beside me, sharing every moment with me. On our tenth Christmas, we were standing in the courtyard behind the castle, staring at the perfect bright globes in our hands: oranges, a rarity only received on birthdays or holidays. Xethro took my hand and laid it on top of his arm. "Pretend that this orange is a ring," he said, placing it into my open palm. He then kneeled down on his left leg, switched to his right, then back to his left. "I think it's your right knee," I offered. He grinned up at me and quickly readjusted. "Princess, do you promise to love and cherish thee until death do us part? I mean, that is, will you marry me?" I remained silent for a moment, thinking. I knew marriage had to do with two people living together. That would mean I could see him everyday! "Yes!" I cried and threw my arms around him. "Not now!" he replied impatiently, then cleared his throat. Xethro carefully removed my arms and ceremoniously peeled the orange, placing half of it in my hands, the other half in his own. Slowly, carefully, he fed the pieces to me one by one, sticky juice running down my chin and onto my dress. We smelled of some tropical island on the other side of the globe for weeks after that. 

*****
Then everything changed. It started with the little angel. I knew my mother's stomach was growing, but I guess I didn't understand that inside was life, something that would breathe the same air I did. I entered the room, smiling happily that morning, the sun filtering through the stained glass windows, when my maid, Alexia, grabbed me by the arm and motioned for me to be quiet. I looked at my mother and father: all smiles, but not at me. I saw little arms and legs poking out of a tiny bed. "Come see the little angel!" Alexia cried. I cautiously peeked over the side of the bed. The first thing I noticed was the blue. Blue lips, blue veins, and above his nose pale, translucent remnants of eyelids closed in sleep, hiding tiny blueberries underneath just waiting to be squashed with one solid push of my pinky. This is what they called an angel! I hadn't seen anything more ugly. I rushed out of the room, the stained glass suddenly not as beautiful as it had been. 
Eventually, Mother thought it wasn't right that I should be with a servant boy while I was of marrying age. "Princesses," she said, "don't keep company with servants. It isn't proper." I hated proper, and I hated being a lady, so I just kept seeing Xethro, except now our meetings were furtive and brief. 
"I have something to announce," my father said one day at the dinner table. "Now, I know we had planned for Julia to be queen," he looked straight at me, his eyes blue marbles. "But, since Alexander has arrived, there has been a change in plans." He didn't need to say any more. The sugared cranberries on my plate, usually my favorite, lost their taste, no longer sweet. My six-year-old brother grinned cheek to cheek, his little dimples diving into his fat face. I could have slapped him. I took my goblet of wine and poured it over his head before anyone could stop me. He grabbed my arm and redirected the liquid. I punched him straight on his nose. Blood poured from it, mingling with the red wine. I cupped my hands and gathered the blood, each drop a stronger taste of my hate. 
It wasn't a surprise when my parents called me to the meeting room the next morning. My brother was there, of course, the all-important heir to the throne. I would've punched him again had he been closer to me. "Julia, by order of Law XVI," my father said, his eyes darting everywhere around the room except to me, "I hereby banish you from the castle for trying to kill the heir to the throne." "Because I am mer-mer-ciful," my brother said. He couldn't even pronounce the word; I wondered if he had any idea what it meant. "You aren't going to be beheaded. I give you this ring as a token of my ch-charity." He placed it in my palm, and a servant rushed me out of the room before I could throw it into his smirking face.
I kept the ring, though. I'm wearing it now as I write, twirling the shiny gold around my finger again and again. It's taken awhile, but I've finally gotten over the hate I had for my brother. I suppose I keep the ring as a sense of security, so that if anyone asks or cares, I can show them that I once was part of the royal family. 
*****
The girl runs barefoot along the dirt path. Her brown hair streams out behind her as the wind whistles through it. She stops at a market stand, shocking the fruit-seller by being able to buy such an expensive fruit: an orange. She continues on her run. Finally, she stops at a clearing. A boy, no, a grown man is waiting there for her. She bends down on the ground, the shiny globe in her hands a replica of the sun. "Will you accept this orange?" The man slowly brings her to her feet, taking her hands in his own. His thumb and index finger wrap around a gold band on her hand. "Do you need this?" he asks. The girl shakes her head. He throws it far, where it lands in a puddle and is stepped on by a passing horse. The man turns his face back to the girl, now a grown woman, and, slowly peeling the orange and breaking it into half, says, "Yes."

The Reasoning

I think, the way people say that children and teenagers don't know what love really 'is', isn't true. Just silly. Because I've always known what love is, even when I was too young to walk - because I've always loved my family and my friends. Love is that encompassing feeling that is indescribable, a little like what the movies and books say, but more not. It's not constricted to romance, and never has been - it's that special feeling beyond comprehension, because if we understood it, it wouldn't be love. And so, I've always been secure in that: knowing how much I loved my family, and how they loved me back. It kept me happy and well in both dark times and good ones. You know the saying that nobody is perfect till you fall in love with them but have you ever thought about how true that saying is? I mean if you ever really love someone can you hate anything about them? And when you lose someone you love doesn’t your world seem to grow dim. And just because there gone doesn’t mean that you love them less. And when you think of them doesn’t everything become a little brighter? Aren’t they still your reason for light? Because when you've been sitting in a dark room for hundreds of years, and one day, someone draws open the curtains that you didn't know were there, and you feel the sun's light for the first time, caressing your skin, drowning your mind, and burning your soul, you don't need to answer when someone asks those inevitable questions.  Why do you love the sun? And will you ever stop?

The Mistress

Do you remember picking dandelions after they'd gone to seed? Holding the white, fragile, round cloud to your lips, and then blowing hard? The tiny segments come alive, and having been released from their parent, they sail freely into the air. Now airborne they would ride the breeze, being tossed this way and then that way.... At times I have felt as segmented and as free floating as the dandelion seeds. Instead of the winds finicky ways, it would be the fickleness of my competition, the mistress. Whether complex or compromising, heavy or free floating, life can be a paradox. My husband had a teaching contract soon after we wed. At the last minute he changed his mind, saying that the confinement of a classroom wasn't for him. No, he's an outdoor man, an independent person. Earlier I had made the statement that I did not care where we lived, or what we lived in, and that his happiness would insure mine. Little did I know what the future held for us. Shortly thereafter he took a mistress. Everyone knew. Everyone but me. The signs were there, but being young, and confident of his love, I was the last to know. The last one to know? How trite, everyone's heard that one! I did notice that when he came home his eyes seemed haunted, as if he was looking backward into memories that I could not share. Our world suddenly seemed unfamiliar to him, foreign, alien. He would always need time to adjust to me. When enough time passed his eyes would change and I could see he had returned to reality. Only then would I have his full attention. The strange look of unfamiliarity would be gone. Soon though, she would call, and he would leave me. I would get him back, but only when she was through with him. After he was with her I could smell her unique odor. It would be all over him, in his hair and on his clothes. Her smell was special, unique. Unlike the scent that I wear. My scent is a mixture of fern, wild flowers, and earthy fiords. My scent is called, "Diamonds in the Snow". I do not know the name of hers. When I would see the need in his eyes, and I knew that she had called and he would leave, I would pretend not to care. You've heard about this kind of man, the kind that cannot decide between two loves. A heart divided. I will try to describe his other love to you. My competition. It will be difficult, as it's never easy to describe a sunset, or a rose, or moonlight, or even a tree. One can use all the descriptive words in the world and still fall short of describing his mistress. Yes, she is that beautiful. She's flawless. Perfect. A changeling child who always looks different. Her kind has always lured men. She's exciting, but she can also be serene. Her voice is one that you will hear in the pulse in your throat, feel in the blood of your limbs, know and keep in the deepest recesses of your mind. Her voice can sing you to sleep, and lull you into a sense of security, or warn you off when she assumes a tone of ripening anger. She smells like an odd erotic mixture of life, and passion, with a tincture of mystery for extra zest. Her touch can make every fiber in your being keenly alert, soaking into your pores and entering into your very blood. How can I compete? Am I flawless? No. Perfect? No. I could enumerate my faults but I don't want to bore you, lets just say I'm a woman who's a 'country mile' from being perfect. Could I be as exciting as my rival? I could change my appearance. I could cut my hair, or perm it, or dye it, and wear a different outfit every day, but in the end it's still me. My rival will always be more exciting. No, I know that I can not measure up to my rival. I could never measure up. I just go on, taking my share of him. After all, in some ways I have more. I bore his children. I'm the roller coaster ride he decided to take, and that he says he wouldn't want to get off even if he could. But still, it will be just a matter of time before he returns to her again. Leaving me. You're thinking, where's my pride? Where's my dignity? Have I lost them? No. You see, my husbands mistress is the Sea, and she will always have a large part of him. She is in his blood, as the Sea was in the blood of all wanderers and travelers on her mighty, salty, vast, endless, pitiless life force. An ever changing color chameleon, this life building great body of water. She, the Sea, is so powerful she makes her own weather. Is it the moon having power over the Sea and her tides or is it the other way around? There's a great amount of salt in our blood. Is that the connection, the umbilical cord that ties him to her? The Sea is his siren mistress, his other love, his ethereal love. I'm his touch stone, his love for something solid and exclusive. I'm the one he shares the morning paper with, and the cross word puzzles. The one who smells of ferns and far off wild flowers and earthy fiords. He is one of the last cowboys, a sea cowboy, and I am his land locked mermaid. We share him, the Sea and I.

Falling

I reached up to grab the first moist branch. It was slippery but I managed to hoist myself up onto it. The wind was blowing rapidly and the tree was rocking back in forth but I didn't care. I could already feel the exhilaration as I started my dangerous journey. 

The rain started up harder and I could feel the weight of just the few drops. I reached the part of the tree that had only a few branches and it was a challenge. I smiled at the thought of a challenge. I loved challenges. It was the only exciting part of life. Finally, I reached my destination. I looked to the north where the view of Aromas usually took my breath away; the land and hills were covered in light quilts of fog. All I could see was the soft sway of the old palm tree in my neighbors yard and I admired that for a few seconds. 
I looked toward the west, which was the only other view from that angle, and it turned out to be the breathtaking one. Prunedale is full of hills and as I looked out at the hills beyond, they looked beautiful. The lush foresty land was the only thing the sun was shining on. Through the thickets of the fog, the sun emerged and lit up the holy hills. The effect was so amazing that I stared at it for a few minutes before I realized my eyes were burning. This is the only thing to live for, I thought, natural beauty. Giant drops of cold rain fell onto my face and the wind made the tree sway but I held on. I took deep breaths and imagined that my life was perfect. Then, I thought about everything on my mind. I took deep considerations on some things and imagined things on others. I closed my eyes and imagined that I absorbed drops of rain and rays of sunlight. 
"Why are you in a tree?"
I looked down and saw Dylan. He looked curious and thoughtful. He usually looked humorous and lively. I never imagined that he had a sensitive side but when I saw his expression I felt that he might actually be similar to me. That amazed me because no one was like me. I didn't answer him. I just stared at the hills again.
"Why are you hugging the tree?" he asked. It was a stupid question because I was holding the tree but I didn't correct him.
"Maybe I'm scared of heights?" I answered sarcastically.
He laughed. It wasn't an obnoxious laugh but a sweet laugh. "You? Scared? You're not scared of anything. You're perfect."
I groaned. I was definitely not perfect. Everyone thought I was perfect just because that's what I appeared to be. I shook my head. "No one is perfect. Surely not me at least," I explained.
"So, what are you doing?" he asked getting serious again.
"Thinking, realizing, absorbing, changing" I replied.
"About what? Why did you climb the tree in this hard dangerous weather?" he asked curiously.
I breathed deeply. "You must not fight the wind, but you must not let it push you off the branch. You just need to hold on and wait for the breeze to go away." I grabbed a dead stick and started breaking it into pieces. As a new piece formed, I threw it down near Dylan. He just stared as I dropped each twig. "Has anyone ever gotten you mad?" He nodded uncomfortably. I then realized what he was thinking about. I wished I hadn't brought it up. "You cannot fight off that person. You cannot hold a grudge on that person. You cannot hurt that person back." I breathed again and continued. "But you cannot dwell on what that person did. You cannot let that person ruin your life. You cannot let that person hurt you." He nodded. 
"What happens if you can't stop it from pushing you off?" he asked in a low voice.
"Then hopefully a friend is there to catch you" I said staring in his icy blue eyes that looked like two pools of water. "Do you understand?" I asked hopefully. I dropped the last piece of the stick. He took a step forward, reached his hands out and caught the tiny twig. He stared at the twig for a few seconds and then looked up at me.
"Yes," he answered and walked to his house cradling the tiny stick. About a minute after he left, the storm cleared up and the sun shined brightly on my face. My face shined brightly back to the sun.