The Sad Times

The towers of rock stood, cold and grey-white, staring down at the winter wasteland, gusts of snow breaking over their peaks like great breakers on a distant shore. This was the quiet time, the sad time, when their companions – the trees and flowers of the high valley – withered and died at winter’s touch. Now only the snow moved, falling in great clumps and collecting, feet-thick, in the calm places where the howling wind could not reach. The bare branches of the forest clattered together lifelessly in the bitter gale, and not a soul, man nor beast, was seen to move among them.

But low, there was a man. He seemed as old as the mountains themselves, bracing himself against the driving blizzard. Had they been able to see his face, they would have seen a landscape as hardened and cracked as their own, hardened by many such winters and by the determination of old-age. Slowly, surely, the man moved forward. Each step seeming to take an incalculable amount of energy, he climbed ever higher towards his goal, the mountains his ever-silent companions. And there, tucked under the highest peak, a light so small that it was nearly snuffed out by oppression of the storm. But this light was the man’s world, his warmth, and his love, and ever ounce of his being strived to be one with it. The mountains watched with infinite curiosity at this speck of life amongst the devastation, and they prayed for his success.

But as he climbed higher, the man faltered. Each step was less sure than the last and his breathing was course in the harsh air, his ancient lungs complaining fiercely with each inhalation. With tremendous effort, his head lifted to gaze at the warm square of light hanging so close in the dim grey, and he seemed strengthened by it. With renewed resolve, the man planted his next step and continued on. Only a hundred yards now, the mountains could see. He was nearly there. With the last drop of his strength the man crossed the final distance. The man climbed the wooden step victoriously and at last relaxation seemed to take his body and the peaks sang at his triumph.

Reaching forward, the man placed his cracked hand on the warn and frosted doorknob. But there he stopped. His goal achieved, his energy spent, he could not go on, and as soft as the snow around him, the man fell. With his last breath the wind wailed with sorrow, the trees flailed in anguish, and the mountains trembled ever so slightly with despair. For they were alone again, and in all their ages this was the saddest time of all.

The Girl: Part 2

Far above the rusty pickup truck, beyond the wandering gaze of the girl, another man looks down at the solitary pit stop. His eyes are similar to the old man's, distant and wise, but his face is entirely different. It is smooth and perfect. It holds no worries, only conviction. It is the face of a zealous man, terrifying and irresistible. His gaze is unperturbed by the desolate landscape, for he focuses all of his attention upon the singular oasis. His descent is without flaw; his elation without reserve.

"This is the one," he whispers, "here I will find her."


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I have made some modifications to part 1, and am most of the way through part 3. Part 3 feels more driven, which I don't like, so I will probably edit it and space it more. Plus, my time has been limited lately... :(

The Girl: Part 1 (Draft Deux)

"How long has it been," asks a small, pale girl from the passenger seat of a faded pickup truck.

Next to her, gripping the wheel loosely is an older man, heavy with years. He sighs, "Since what?"

"Since the radio gave out?" She playfully turns the nob, all the way up and then back down again. "I wish you had a disc player in here," she halfheartedly mutters, looking out the window.

"I don't have any discs."

Leaning her head against the window, she closes her eyes. "Yeah, but it would be nice to have some music. Something with a beat. You know, driving music, wouldn't it?" Her small fingers rap against the window as she hums a wordless tune.

"I suppose."

"I coulda gotten something before we left. Something good. Something with a beat, you know," she repeats, a tired reprise. Her head slumps heavily against the window. "If you had just given me some time."

"You didn't have any music back there." He keeps his eyes on the road.

"No, but I coulda gotten something." She opens her eyes again, looks at the driver, ready for a fight. "I had friends back there, they liked me."

"Doesn't matter. We don't have a disc player."

She sighs and resigns to the window. He shifts his grip, always keeping two hands on the wheel. The silence and sunlight bear down upon the pair as the desert rolls by. Beyond the windshield the flat wilderness stretches as far as the eye can see. The distance wavers in a tempting mirage of substance, dancing at the edge of the horizon. They drive alone down a long, straight stretch of two-lane highway. There are no curves, but the man keeps a steady eye upon the road. The girl is still for a time before twisting and resting against the door, her back carefully avoiding the window crank.

Suddenly she flings her legs up into the man's lap. "Hey," he shouts angrily as he squeezes the wheel. A quick glance her way and then his eyes return to the road. "Don't distract me, I'm driving."

Incredulously, she pushes herself up and looks out the windshield. "What are you worried about, we might hit some sand?" She drops back into the reclined position and wiggles her feet. "Besides, I need to stretch out." A slight smile etches across her face.

"Alright, just don't..." She bounces her feet mid-sentence and laughs. He smiles and looks at the girl. Worn wrinkles relax a little, belying a hidden youth. His grip eases. "You still love messing with me, don't ya?" Turning back to the road, he resettles and shifts his grip. Minutes go by in silence.

She stares at the man and the bright, cloudless sky behind him before turning her attention back to the radio. A click sounds as she turns the nob. She toys with the dial, but only the deep hum of the engine is heard. "Did it just break? I mean, shouldn't there be static?" She turns the volume knob all the way up and waits.

"I guess it broke," he replies, gently.

"Hmm. That must have been hours ago." She slowly turns the knob down, leaving the radio in the on position. "How many hours, do you think," looking up at him, hopefully.

"Not too long."

"Two? Three?" She sidles close to him.

"Dunno."

"C'mon, you have to know. I mean, you're always in such a hurry, always keeping track." She sits in the middle of the cab, close to him, on the edge of the seat.

"I'm in a hurry because you need to be safe. Everything I do, I do for you." He glances down at her, but only for a moment.

She sighs and leans back, "If everything you do is for me, why couldn't we stay?"

"It wasn't safe."

"Yeah it was, my friends were all there. They could have protected me," she argues, weakly. Before he replies, she looks away, losing interest.

"They couldn't protect you from him. No one can." His wrinkles return and his grip tightens. In the distance, something different, something real begins to take form. "There's a stop ahead, might be gas, we need it."

She sits up and squints into the sun, "I don't see it. All this sun, we shoulda taken one of them solars. Then we wouldn't need gas."

"I don't steal," comes the hasty reply, "and we can't afford one. Besides, people are willing to give me gas for what I do, but nobody gives up a solar."

"Can I watch this time," she inquires, turning to look at him.

"No. I am not even sure what this place is, there mightn't be anything there." He glances quickly at the fuel gage. Nearly empty.

"Well, if there is someone there, isn't it time for me to learn, to see what you do?" She pushes against him, gently wrapping herself around his arm.

"No. Put on your seatbelt. If something happens, you know what to do, right?" He waits for a reply before turning to her, "Right?" She nods and sinks into the seat as she slips on the belt. Her arms quickly fold across her worn dress and she shifts against the door. Exhaling strongly, she turns from him. "I am only trying to protect you. If something goes wrong, you drive away. I will catch up, you just drive away, okay?" The girl moves her head slightly, but maintains her petulant pose. "Good," he mutters and a fragile smile leaks across his face.

"I can't even reach the pedals," she replies in a sulky voice. He abruptly looks down at the floor and then at the wheel. Slowing the truck, he begins to mutter under his breath. Obscenities slip out. "Don't worry, he never finds us when we are moving," she reassures, turning towards him, worry stricken across her face.

"Yeah, well, he could. I didn't fucking think. These old cars use pedals. Damnit. It's risky, you will be all alone out here, trapped." His voice wavers, his fingers rap on the steering wheel. "Alright," his voice racing, "you can come in this time, but wear the hood."

She bounces in her seat, reaching under her legs for a dirty, white pile of cloth. "I stand out with the hood," she complains.

"You stand out more without it," he replies, slowly bringing the truck back up to speed.

Stack-o-Lee

That day came 'round
When I shot him down.
In that broken town.

Bon Voyage, Will.

My .22 had spoken,
Silenced and smokin'.
Casings left as a token.

What a thrill.

He questioned why,
Refused my lie,
And turned to die.

All for a slur and a bill.

Anatomy Mate

Those eyes, judging, yet forgiving,
Those eyes, spiteful, yet loving,
Piercing the thin artificial veil
Twixt life and death, to now surveil
My work, longing to tell her tale.

Though careful, my observations
Divulge little without conversations.
Words too weak to elucidate,
And question why such a fate
Befell my anatomy mate.

Two Gallants: Seuss Style

1: I met a mam who steals from her fam and pays for my tram. Tis not a sham.

2: To know such a mam is worth quite a ham, and better a gram than giving a damn.

1: Meet my sweet lamb and see the scam, simply follow where I am.

The meeting:

1: There is the dame that I do claim and have no shame, what was her name?

2: Her, the ugly one? She looks like no fun and her big bun heft near a ton.

Later, while eating Peas:

1: Every year I do grow with no increase in dough, no woman to sow.

2: Look, here is a gold, from that woman I told. To have and to hold!

Poem II: To Change

Always the same.
Never changing.
The razor has only one edge.
To change is to fall.
To fall is to live.
To live is everything.

The Snowstorm

I called 911. I called the moment it happened.

The operator told me that she could not send an ambulance in the storm. I pleaded, but she was resolute. They could not come because the snow was too deep, the roads closed, the storm too strong. Nothing could get through the snowstorm. What was so beautiful but minutes ago had transformed into a bulwark against rescue, a behemoth committed to our isolation. I didn't know what to do. I could hear the operator's voice, distant and hazy. She was trying to help. She was giving me directions. Maybe, had I listened, had I tried, my wife would be alive today. The voice crackled through the receiver, but I was afraid. Keep pressure on the wound, and find something to bandage her, it said. Use cloth if you need to. Do something, it commanded, anything to stop the bleeding.

Why did I freeze; why did I do nothing?

I had never seen this much blood. I had never dealt with something this bad. As I watched, she lay motionless, bleeding on the golden persian carpet. We had bought it on our honeymoon to Egypt. I remember how its delicate beauty had been transformed into a terrible mural of death. The intricate lines in the expensive foreign weaving filled with viscous red ink, a monstrous calligraphy of my wife's last breaths. Like confronting an unlearned language, I wanted everything to be clear and easy. Why couldn't the ambulance come? Why didn't anyone want to save my wife?

More importantly, why didn't I want to save her?

I didn't want to kill her, but by doing nothing I guaranteed her death. Her breathing slowed and her eyes glazed over. I backed across the room until my legs hit the chair. Collapsing into the soft leather, I cried. I cried for what seemed like hours. Snow fell upon snow, piling up around the windows as I wept. The white insulation that kept the world at bay, that killed my only love, fell silently. I was alone. Alone.

Ten years ago, I lost my only love. Ten years I have lived a lie. Ten years I should have been dead. Not her.

Now I go to join her. I slow my pace and step carefully in the snow. It falls around me, occluding the way back, hiding the way forward. The cold creeps into my lungs, freezing the very air I breathe and my chilling my blood. I fall to my knees and whisper a silent apology to my wife. Slowly, I lay down. All I see is white, drifting down to bury me in its beauty, in its quiet wrath.

I see my wife now. I see her eyes, her hair, her slight smile. I hear a soothing voice whisper through the wind. I hear forgiveness. I smile. I die.

The Daydream

But to melt the candle down
Below its brim and to the ground.
By bleak light, I did but miss
That darker time meant for bliss,
Where one dreams of gentle kiss.

To pierce that night with a light
And ponder the system: fight or flight?
Is the debt that one must pay
To help the injured, one future day,
And join that hippocratic way.

Yet Lacking rest, my mind does wander
Beyond the bounds of my binder.
Straying far from fair Netter,
I do question which is better,
Captain Morgan or Jagermeister?

One is captain, bold and daring.
Complete with hat and seafaring
The other is, as stories told,
A german hunter from days of old
Who drank to keep away the cold.

Damn my mind for losing time,
Despite reminder by the chime.
For while on such I ruminate
I fail to learn what innervates,
And as such I seal my fate

To spend another sleepless night
Fighting fatigue with the light.

The Clock

The clock strikes two.

Ding...
Ding...

Two rings of a tiny clockwork bell, its chime echoing only slightly in the barren hall. In fifteen minutes the clock will chime once, in thirty, twice. Always a constant, always there to remind you that time is flowing, never stopping. A stallwart of temporal fortitude, reliable and impersonal.

Tick. Tock.

It would never cheat. It would never fight. It would never leave. It would never take the dog. It would never take the records. It would never take the goddamn Christmas tree, an empty space now filled by a few lights on the floor. They lay like discarded clothes, waiting for somebody to put them back on. Waiting in vain.

Tick. Tock.

There is a single present left. Laying amounst the fallen lights and abandoned ornaments, its silver paper reflects the multicolored bulbs like a prism. On its embossed name cover reads a simple note, "With love."

Five minutes.

Images of fire and loss pass through the glass emptiness of a man's eyes. No tears. Nothing left to cry over. The fear, the rage, the moment, they had all passed in the night. Now there is an empty well. Emotions drained and used, leaving only regret, only thirst.

Ten minutes.

Snow and cold air drift in through a broken window. By the morning, there will be a small pile of snow on the floor. Outside, three stories down, there will be a frame hidden in white. Between its wooden arms there will be a picture of happiness. A picture false, but warm. A picture of the past.

Fifteen minutes.

The pendulum reflects a last remorseful glance. A hand opens the front door. A moment's pause, and then, gone. All that is left is time, moving forward, never backward.

My Pillow

Exhausted, I accept her gentle embrace.

With her unwrinkled skin,
She caresses my face, soft and expectant,
Like a zephyr on a sultry day.

She has been waiting for me,
Just as I have been waiting for her.
The long, tiring day seems a distant memory while I am in her clutches.

Soon she pulls me in close,
Enveloping me in her warm hug.
I breath in her modest, yet refreshing scent
And relish in the comfort that comes with it.

Soon, my world will be filled with the dispassionate aroma of sleep,
But first,
I must rest my weary head and release my demons.

She begins my night simply,
With a compassionate cuddle and a forgiving cradle.

Where I go from there is unknown,
But there is no better start than in her hands.

Poem I: Running

Run until the feeling fades,
Until color becomes shades.
Run until each thing falls,
Worries left like dolls
Worn with forgotten care
Every emotion a faded tear.
Left far behind
For you to find.
When you stop running.
So never stop.
Never.
Never.