Freedom

They covered their eyes in the bright sunlight, forgetting how such light could sting after so much darkness. Every color, every smell, every sound overwhelmed their senses, but they didn't dare go back. Five long months the two of them had spent in isolation cells, and the wash of faces and bodies shattered them to the core. Still, they held hands, so they would not be separated again.

Five months of watching personality cult propaganda, five months of pacing around their cells, five months of losing time. Now time was theirs. Now the world was theirs. As for their souls, they had forfeited those long ago to the one Person the government could confiscate them from.

Drum Major

She has a photo album enshrining

her conquests over the past four seasons.

Each photo captures

brass players, drummers, pit people,

even woodwind players

she's had on her arm.

In total,

they count for half the people in the ensemble.

In the front cover rests a picture she's torn in half,

one side, unmarked, has her in her pristine uniform,

the other, with devil horns and a pitch fork inscribed in sharpie,

All worn by the drum major she despises,

the one who spread a rumor about her

and the boy in the color guard,

who's orientation everyone questions.

The Three Unwise Men

"I think we should've turned right three palm trees ago." The sand rustled along the hooves, and two of the riders tightened the cloths covering their mouths.

"Three, huh."

"Yeah, three. That one by that mountain."

"You call that a mountain? That was more like a foothill!"

"Um...I think my cammel needs to pee."

The others glanced at him, their turbans billowing in the dessert wind. Still, they didn't stop just yet.

One sighed, the narrow band of gold circling his turban glinting in the moonlight. "I suppose he didn't need to when we were at that oasis not to long ago."

"Not at all." The second answered, scrutinizing his robes of fine scarlet while his skin tried to match their hue.

"Hm, well, we could always try the next one." The third added optimistically, trying to juggle his star chart and his looking glass.

"I'm sure there won't be one for another few days. You should've checked your camel while you had the chance."

"I did! I swear, no signs at all of any... potential leakage."

"You sure we couldn't just take a break? I'm feeling a little tired myself."

"We can't. That camel will be doing its business until the moon wanes at this rate. We're already late."

"Oh come on. That child has waited for over a year now, it's not like he's still waiting in some manger for our gifts."

"I don't know..this myrrh might spoil, or that frankincense. It's not like gold, you know."

Twas the Night Before Christmas

Inspired by Clement Clarke Moore's classic poem, also titled “A Visit from St. Nicholas"

Twas the Night Before Christmas

When all through the flat,

Not a creature was stirring,

Not even the cat.

The stockings were hung by the heater with care,

Lighting the filthy fireplace we wouldn't dare.

The parents were snuggled and warm in their beds

While visions of school-buses drove in their heads.

My mother in her pjs and dad in his shirt

Had just dozed off, to sleep off dessert.

When out on the street there rose such a racket,

I sprang from my desk and threw on my jacket.

Away to the window I zipped like the Flash,

Looking outside, expecting a car crash.

I saw street lights reflected on fresh-fallen rain,

Damp moss, slick roads, and rusted road drains.

And what, to my wandering eyes should appear,

But a hovering motor home and eight hybrid reindeer.

With a weighty old driver, yet so lively and slick,

I knew in a moment he thought himself Saint Nick.

More wild than bikers on their cycles he came,

And his sleeves held more tricks than a cheating card game!

"Oh darn it, oh darn it. I think it's broken."

He swore. "the shop'll be closed in the mornin'."

He glanced at the house, at the door, and the top of the wall,

and spotted the tools for an overhaul.

As burglars check for cameras before they break in,

"Santa" checked the perimeter with a flick of his chin.

So up to the front door quietly he sneaked,

Except for when the floorboards creaked.

And then in the rustling I heard at the door,

The scratching and grinding of jams and bores.

As I grabbed Dad's gun, and was turning around,

Through the front door Santa came in a bound.

He was dressed in dark red,  from his head to his boot,

And his clothes were all trashed with grease and soot.

A bag of plunder he slung on his back,

And he looked just like a beggar, just opening his sack.

His eyes, they darkened, his wrinkles were sinister.

His cheeks were like canyons, his nose like a mountain.

His thin lips were creased like paper,

And the beard of his chin was ashen like slush.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

Smoke poked my throat like thorns in a wreath.

He had a small face and a bouncing round belly,

That shook when he laughed, and he made the room smelly.

He was chubby and fat, a right creepy old fart,

And I hacked when I saw him, and it gave him a start.

A wink of his eyes, and a twist of his head,

Soon told me to know I had everything to dread.

He said not a word, and set to his work,

and ate the milk and cookies, the old jerk!

Stepping too close to the sensors beside his nose,

He set the alarms blaring, in mid-bite he froze!

He sprang out the door, wrapped tool box in hand,

and tried the engine to get out of this land.

But I heard the sirens, and smirked as he stood in plain sight,

and watched them arrest him on that cold winter night.

Prayer

"Hey Dad?" She bobbed on her heels, the curls in her pigtails bouncing. Her small pink hands grasped onto the corner of his armchair as she leaned towards him.

"Yes Princess? He glanced down through the narrow passage between the newspaper and his face.

"Would you pray for me?"

The newspaper sank a little, crackling slightly as it wrinkled in his hands. "What's wrong?"

Princess beamed, her curls bouncing a second time. "Oh, nothing's wrong Daddy."

"Oh?"

"Mommy says that when two or more people pray, God's with 'em."

"Mm-hm." One of his eyebrows stretched to the ceiling knowingly. "And what are you praying for?"

"A pony."

"A pony? But Princess...."

"Would you please pray for me? Pretty please?"

"Of course. But don't get mad at me if God says to wait."

Crying jags and rough spots

The man in the moon know what it means to cry

in the shadows of his darker side,

and then smile for the whole world to see on his brighter side.

Oh, if only I could dive into his seas

and swim until the silver-grey water sapped

the heaviness from my bones

and loosened gravity's hold on me.

Only then,

could I fly back to Earth,

burning bright like a meteor,

and leaving behind

only a trail of pixie dust.

News Update

Dear Guests,

I apologize  for my recent hiatus from the Forty-Fifth Paradox. Some issues in my personal life and some issues in my academic life allied themselves against me and declared war on my free time. It took around three weeks to vanquish them and currently I'm demanding reprimands. (No word yet on whether or not these issues will be paying off my war debt.)

In other news, I revamped my fan page on facebook for your fanning pleasure. I assume, since you're already at the Forty-Fifth Paradox, that you're already a subscriber. In case you would like to hear about my other exploits, whether it be photography, non-fiction writing, or even updates on my novel, that's the first place to look. Here it is! http://www.facebook.com/home.php?ref=logo#/pages/Sara-J-Pittock/201469062363?ref=nf

In Memoriam

There's the two guys whose fists collided over a girl,

and there's those students who squabbled for a week on

end over a story.

I don't think my professor quite realized

the ramifications of signing me up for this class,

let alone taking me on this field trip.

I wish I could be remembered for a Trojan war

even if it left the cities in my hair in ruins.

I wish I could live on as the essay the professor

shows off every year.

Instead, I am the girl

who will be immortalized in laughing stories,

as the one who dropped the gum out of her mouth,

down on the pristine floor of a Willamette chapel,

during a poetry reading.

Dear Lucy

I apologize for the delay of this reply. It seems this year, it's a bit harder to spread the Christmas cheer. You see Lucy, it's only people like you who keep the spirit of the season going. What, with all the wars, diseases, and grumbling complaints, it's a wonder that people smile on Christmas day anymore than the other 364 days in a year.

I'm afraid I need your help, Lucy. According to news reporters, a notoriously bad person sneaked into my toy shop. He then proceeded to pretend to be me, and nearly answered a letter to a girl much like yourself. Thankfully, we caught him before he could send the letter out. Unfortunately, many people have overreacted to this bad situation, and made it even more tragic. Now the post office won't deliver the letters to the North Pole.

Lucy, I need you to continue doing nice things instead of naughty things. I need you to be cheerful year round, but especially when it's close to Christmas. Maybe then people will regain some hope in the human race, and I can recieve your letters and answer them more easily. We can only hope.

Faithfully yours,

Santa.

Earthly Muse

Homer had his demigods,

Milton and Dante their heavenly muse,

but my muse is bound to this earth.

She prefers chocolate to nectar,

perfume to incense,

guitar riffs to hymns

and comic books to epic poetry.

Now if only my earthly muse

would learn to throw wisps of cloud

rather than sharp rocks.

My mind can't handle much more abuse.

Meaning

Like a surrealist painting;

She's nothing,

but she looks so pretty.

Clocks melt when she walks by,

and male brains turn into apples.

But when she's gone,

they revert to normal,

like the room lacking a man with a newspaper.

Paying Dues

Dear Camelback High School Librarian,

Enclosed in this package is two long overdue books. Hopefully those poor bird-watchers didn't miss them. It's too bad that I packed them away before I could use them for my report. To this day, I'm still not sure if my teacher noticed or not when I gave my presentation in class.

I'm pretty sure though, if she's still around, that Ms. Whatever-Her-Name-Was has an exact count of how many days of my two cents that I owe. Hopefully this check covers it all (knowing her, the rates may have changed.) May that likely retired librarian sleep peacefully at night from now on. If she hasn't retired, allow me to apologize to any students under her jurisdiction.

Yours Truly,

A student from the class of '58

To Sand We Shall Return

We marched for Cambyses;

We marched to the oracle;

We marched to take her down;

We marched to cast her into the sand;

We marched to bury her body  in the sand,

to the place we would all return.

_________________

We marched for Cambyses;

We marched for the son of Cyrus;

We marched for the King of Persia;

We marched to make him and his advisors proud;

We marched to be remembered above all Persian armies;

We marched to be remembered beyond the sand,

the place we would soon return.

______________

We marched to be lost;

We marched to be found;

We marched to leave arrowheads and silver bracelets;

We marched to leave a thousand skulls grinning at the sky;

We marched into the sand;

We marched into the sand,

and to sand we returned.

Forgetting Him.

The restraining order has been sitting in my wallet so long, I think the two of them have melded together. I should burn it. He's dead. That man can't come near me once they've locked him in his casket.

I should frame it. Any time I should begin to forget what he did, I'll glance up and see it through the glass. Even when the children ask me questions, I'll be able to tell them the truth. Even when I begin to go soft, he can't hurt me again.

Perhaps I should file it away, and try to forget it ever happened. This way no one else would ever forget, but I could, at least for a little while.

Displacement.

I left the vestiges of my thoughts on the branches of the trees,

Some of my memories linger on the gold and ruby leaves.

Though my feet stand still on concrete floors,

My mind wanders through emerald greens.

My nose breathes in the air within this cramped room,

but I only smell the crisp air in the fields.

I turn my head, and I swear I feel the autumn wind

stirring the ends.

Soon my body will be reunited with my mind,

Soon.

Friendly Neighborhood Cook Out

Honestly, I thought he only needed air-freshener. I never realized that he needed a sentence, a watch, several prison bars, and a trip to court, let alone a trial. It came as a shock to the whole neighborhood when the cops showed up on the street, sirens blaring and lights flashing.

Mind you, our street has seen better days. Way back when, people came here to retire, to own homes for the first time, not to lose their lives. Our neighbor didn't cause us no trouble, before, at least. We thought nothing of it when he invited us over for a barbecue.

Sure, the smell messed with our appetites, but we thought he was just a bad cook.

We thought she had just left on vacation. No, none of us have seen the body. But we know it smells like sausage.

Last Name

My ancestors journeyed over an ocean,

to what they saw as a new world,

but I think they became new,

like new pronunciation,

new religion,

a new neighborhood,

a new language,

A new identity.

___________

My mother and her sisters

wouldn't have known that their distant

cousins wore stars of David

on their sleeves,

a few years before my mother's birth,

or that fifth-cousins-three times-removed

wanted a neighborhood of their own,

without imposing walls or armored tanks on the other side.

__________

She wouldn't have known that her relatives wanted their own national identity.

_________

She wouldn't have known,

if someone had not said:

"You're Jacob's,

Are you Jewish?"

Forget Me Nots

I just came home from the doctor. Walking through the door, I set down my pamphlets about memory loss. My doctor told me it's important, so hopefully I'll remember. As I reached the door, I pulled out my keys and tried to remember which one would unlock my house. Here's a prescription, take it twice a day. The last verse of a song cut off as I turned off the engine. Remember, take it with a full glass of water. Pulling into the driveway, I recalled the pharmacist.

"Current address?"

Staring at her forehead, as if the answer would be written there between the lines, I shook my head.

"Ma'am?"

"Mm?"

"May I verify your address?"

Five--no four, three blind mice. "433 Blue Orchid Street"

I entered the pharmacy, piece of paper in hand. Thank goodness for little papers. Before I began to forget to buy them, I'd keep a pack of sticky notes with me at all times. Before then, sometimes I'd forget to even right things down before I forgot them. Walking out of the doctor's office, I swore to myself I wouldn't forget the instructions, my doctor had said they were important.

Dropping my keys on my desk, I remembered that I had forgotten, whatever it was.

K

K

K reigns as the king of letters,

though it shares its ending proclamations with C,

and it allows Q to start the queens,

and P to get its princes and princesses started.

Sometimes K demands to be

known, and knighted,

but seldom asks to be pronounced out loud

Child's Play

“I opened my eyes and looked up at the rain

And it dripped into my head,

And flowed into my brain.”

Shel Silverstein

Every step sounds like a waterfall.

Every stop a crashing shoreline.

I feel like I need a towel

every time I nod,

and a bucket every time I shake my head.

So, don’t ask me another yes or no question,

or end this twenty question game.

Truth or Dare, then?

I’ll tell you the truth,

I’ll never look up at the rain again.

The Last of the Fairy God-Mothers

She walked up to her pumpkin-shaped carriage and nearly sat inside before she noticed something off about it. The carriage didn't quite sparkle like it used to (she wouldn't have seen the carriage were it not for the street lamps.) In fact, if she looked closely enough, she noticed a slightly orange tint to the finish and a rotten smell.

Adjusting her wings and digging in her pockets for dust, she charged up to the driver to give him a piece of her mind. How dare he let her beloved carriage,  the chariot she had spent so much time and energy and magic on, go to waste! The words nearly flew out of her mouth--and then her throat swallowed them when she saw his face. Sticking out of the side of his nose were whiskers. As the driver stared at her with beady eyes, his nose twitched. And before, she had made him so handsome, she would have married him if she didn't know he had been a mouse before she came along.

Hair began to stand up on her once hairless arms. Swallowing, she narrowed her eyes and tested out her wand. Nothing. She tried winking one eye or twitching her nose. Rolling her eyes, she even clicked her heels together and stared wide-eyed at the shriveling carriage as she heard shattering glass around her feet. In desperation she flung out the last of her dust.

For some reason, lately her supply had dwindled, even in the light of a full moon. She always had faith that her dust would return in full measure every month, like it always had so she didn't think much of it when she slowly had to conserve more and more for each pet project. Why should she? All the other fairy god mothers had wonderful glass slippers, flying abilities, sparkling carriages, and athletic drivers. A nagging voice told her that the others created for others,  to begin with, but she ignored it.

She half expected a tiny mouse to appear once the dust landed on the ground, even a dove. Instead, to the increasing sweat droplets traveling down her backbone, she found a small, folded note. Swallowing, she picked it up and opened it.

The note had nothing scrawled on it, nothing, blank. She pinched her eyes shut, as if it would drown out the soft voice that read the unwritten words out loud.

If you are reading this note, then you already have a suspicion that the last of your magic has run out. We regret to inform you that you are correct. Like every fairy god mother before you who has lost the last of her magic, you from this point on will suffer the consequences of your actions. We gave you your first dust and taught you how to use it in hopes that you would use it for the good of others, and at one time, we assumed you did. To our dismay, as we watched you this past year, we noticed a lack of proper distribution of your gifts. Today we shall take your magic back to where it belongs.

Though you may be the last of our kind, we've decided to proceed with this painful procedure in hopes of finding a worthy candidate one day. Once this note is finished in its reading, your skin will wrinkle, your hair will crinkle and lose its color, your sparkling eyes will turn dull, and your bones will stick out in odd places, and any attempt to fix these perfectly natural problems will not work. Enjoy the remainder of your life, for it will be short.

Signed, the Authorities.

She opened her eyes in time to find not a note in her hands, but a small pile of ash. At her feet sat a rotten pumpkin. Faintly she could hear a small pack of mice scurrying into the bushes.

Right Out of the Oven

She couldn’t have come sooner,

in better condition,

brand new,

mint even.

Like cotton, the nurses wash her once

to see if she shrinks.

We’ll try her on,

to see if she fits.

What I Would Do

If my best friend died,

I would run to the other end of town

and back, until the soles of my shoes

became my feet and my shirt melted into my skin.

I would burn every calorie of every piece of

chocolate I ever ate while discussing

PMS with him.

 

I would go to Gov Cup and order a chai tea

and try every flavor in single shots in different cups.

I would flirt with the barista as if to

cheat on our relationship that never happened because

we would end up killing each other.

 

I would write a poem where every line was an inside joke,

and all the words would be five syllables long

and only be found in the OED.

I would shout utterly vulgar phrases from the bus stop,

(but only in Greek, Spanish, and Russian.)

 

I would stay up late with his other best friend and say

absolutely nothing.

Because my ashen clothing,

my decreasing chocolate supply,

my counter-top full of espresso shots,

my affair with the barista,

my tirade at the bus stop,

even my inside joke of a poem

would fail him.

Starlight

Two friends lied on a grass hill, gazing up at the night sky. The stars gazed back, blinking occasionally. While the stars remained silent, except for the occasional breeze, the two friends allowed the wind to carry their conversation.

"What do you think that one is?" The first, a thirteen-year-old boy, asked the girl next to him.

"It kind of looks like you." She replied, blowing a stray hair off her nose.

"What?"

"See?" She pointed. "It has your nose, with that weird bump and everything."

"It does not."

"Does too."

"Yeah?" He shot back, pointing at a constellation next to it. "I think that one looks like your mom."

"Does not!"

He laughed. Finally, he turned, glancing at her head's profile, with the smooth nose, curved lips and a single eye. "You know what?" The boy whispered.

"What?" She continued to stare up at the sky.

"I've never seen the stars like this before."

Finally, she looked at him, blinking curiously. "Really?"

The boy nodded, with each brush of his head shoving aside more blades of grass. "Back in the city, there's all this smog and city lights that never get turned off. You can't see anything at night."

"Huh." She glanced back up at the sky, as if the stars had the answers to her problems.

"And you know what else?"

"Yeah?" She sighed softly, glancing at him for just one instance.

He smiled just slightly. "The girls in city look at me like I'm crazy when I talk about leaving."

Mrs. Peterson

Paintings overflowed

Onto her skirts with each stroke of her voice.

Her eyes were graphite,

Her curls swirling, like Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

Each of her encouragements,

Staccato like a stipple dot,

Small, but remarkably different from its neighbor.

With each step, her shadow

Drifted with Vermeer’s subtle shading,

Leaving us to wonder

If one of Raphael’s angels

Had flown into our classroom.

Point of View

A man with his head in the clouds (at least 3 feet closer than most) seeks a woman not afraid of heights. He's not afraid to break world records for the sake of her love, and he enjoys installing light-bulbs, hanging curtains, and viewing life from a distance. Man works as a part time farmer, and isn't afraid to admit needing support as he walks high above common ground.

We wish him luck.

"Forecast Calls for Overcast Skies and a Shower of Business Men"

The windows thought they knew what rain sounded like,

They did not know it sounded like men falling from the sky,

Quiet men in trench coats, ties, and bowler hats,

Standing straight up like pins,

So they'd fall that much harder,

Staring off into space as if falling from the sky

Was a perfectly normal way to go to work.

For the Love of Chicken

Your honor, I must confess. I'm completely innocent in this mess. All I heard about was the cash, and well...the chicken. Yes your honor, I said chicken.

I suppose I should explain myself. It's the smell, really, the greasy slimy smell. I find it so...enticing, like a bee to nectar. One day I walked into the restaurant, and found myself in the middle of a very important meeting. I must admit, I really didn't pay attention to much, except the chicken. Did I mention that hot wings are my favorite?

Honestly, your honest honor, I had no idea I was involved in a terrorist plot until the officer told me so! Now that I've been arrested, do you think the restaurant will still give me free chicken? I really love chicken, especially when it's free.

Mr. Manager

Mr. Manager raises dreams,

Then kills them with detergent mixed

with capitalistic greed.

It doesn't taste like cherry syrup,

Or blue coconut.

Rather it tastes like greenish-whiteish tomatoes

On a burnt cheeseburger,

That's 30 seconds late.

Flavorings of the Future

What does tomorrow taste like? Does it taste like ripe strawberries from the garden? Does it taste like sour grapes?

Does it taste like rainbows? Like clouds? Like crisp mountains? Like fertile valleys?

Or goes it sour at the sound of war, like milk past the expiration date? Does it lose its flavor like hard-headedness? Like a love forgotten?

What does tomorrow taste like? Do I decide?

Emotion

Crying thick tears,

Like drops of paint.

With cheap mascara, I probably look like a Pollock painting.

But why don't I feel like a masterpiece?

Why do I need appraisal?

I don't need to feel like finger-paint blotches

Yellowing on a refrigerator door,

Loved only by my mother.

I am loved by more than just her,

Perhaps not by the critics,

But what do they know about art?

Bread Crumbs

Thinking about you.

I've been thinking about you  a lot recently. With all your recent accomplishments, it's hard not to. I know our relationship's been a bit rocky lately, with all the listening devices and undercover informants serving as your customers. I had to keep tabs on you somehow.

I'll gladly accept your busted drugs as gifts to my investigation, and give you this card (and the right to remain silent) as a thank you. The jail cell might not seem like much, but I'm sure you'll have plenty of time to get used to it.

Lawfully yours,

The Police Department

Salt in the Wound Part II

You'll all die,

Unless you watch our cast.

Watch our show,

And we'll do our best to keep the terrorists and the Swine Flu at bay.

(Oh, excuse us, we mean H1N1. We don't want to offend the swine.)

Drive up our ratings,

And we just might stop the mudslinging,

Or maybe we'll wallow in the dirty stories just a bit more,

(We want to make more cash for our commercials.)

So, please keep watching,

We want to make you happy

With our depressing news.

Through Rose Stained Glass Chapter I Scene II

The coffee tasted terrible. Maybe if it had been freshly brewed, the taste would be a little more edible. Even the stalest donuts would be an improvement. Patterson continued to drink the distasteful stuff out of courtesy. He didn't know the next time he would get a chance to investigate side by side with police officers. At the moment though, the opportunity didn't seem so lucrative.

The scene sat as it had before, so many years ago, except this time the caution tape had been removed. Any obvious evidence had long been cleaned up as well. Patterson didn't see anything but dry pavement. Rubbing his face, and glancing at the murky coffee, he sighed. His companion, Officer Randall, stood next to another policeman, drinking the same coffee. They huddled close together, trying to block out the icy air and slight winds.

A bit impatient by this point, Patterson voiced the question he knew must've been on the others' minds. "What are we looking for again?"

Randall gave him an impatient look. "Evidence they didn't catch years ago."

Patterson took a sip of the coffee, trying not to make a face. "Run through the case for me one more time?" He had heard it several times, but each time he tuned it out. It seemed so typical, and it didn't seem like his thinking skills were necessary.

Sighing, Randall explained. "We received a 911 call the night of the fight. A lady driving by the scene witnessed a gang fight on the corner across from the furniture store. Dispatched officers arrived to find the lot empty save for a corpse. Medical examiners identified the body as Michael Roberts. We knew him as Bobby Butcher, a gang hit man, if you will."

Patterson narrowed his eyes, thinking out loud. "Only one man dead in a gang fight, and he was supposed to be the one pulling off a hit. It doesn't make sense." His eyes narrowed further, making it harder to see. "Didn't someone already confess?"

The others nodded.

He rubbed his forehead and sighed. "Then why are you trying to reopen the case?"

Randall swallowed, and answered quietly. "We think she's covering for someone else."

Patterson side. "Is there any witnesses we could ask?"

The officers glanced at each other knowingly, and one of them reluctantly admitted, "Well...there is one person."

Happy Anniversary!

It's roughly been a year since the Forty-Fifth Paradox first opened its doors. I looked up on Wikipedia typical anniversary gifts, and I came up with these: Paper, Cotton, and/or Clocks. Apparently Americans ( "traditional" ones give paper, and "modern" ones give clocks) need a concrete reminder. British people apparently need to clothe themselves more. While I'm too poor to actually buy you a pad of paper (or a card), or a time keeping device, I do want to wish my guests a Happy Anniversary!

A lot has changed in the past year. One thing you have have noticed already: the colors you're staring at will long longer give you a migraine. I do try to give my guests the most comfortable (or most engaging) experience possible, and believe me, the old theme bugged me too. Another thing that's changed quite a bit (and quite often) is the rate I post. For a while (out of guilt) I tried entertaining everyone everyday, which proved to be too big a drain on my time and mental resources. At one point last fall, my guests would be lucky to find fresh accommodations once a month. I'm still trying to find a happy medium, but at least everyone will stay alert and on their toes (or subscribe to the feed.) Probably less noticeable is one giant upgrade the Paradox went through earlier this week. Some unlucky readers would have noticed the locked door and technological gibberish spread at the top of the page. I do apologize, and I can assure all of you it won't happen in the future if I have anything to do with it.

How can you participate in the celebration? I have a few suggestions:

• http://www.facebook.com/search/?q=Melody&init=quick#/pages/Melody-J-Jacobs/44045265045?ref=ts.
  


• Comment here with your favorite poem, drabble, short story, or novel excerpt. Your input could very well change the direction of the Forty-Fifth Paradox.

Come on in,

It might not be what you expect,

But who wants the expected?

Who wants the old, the used, the endlessly recycled ideas?

Come on in,

And have a seat by the fire,

Continually burning with the bluest flames,

And warm yourself,

But try not to get burned.

The Woman at the Landromat.

Her shirt had already begun to stick to her skin, but she couldn't wash it today. As she pushed the glass door open with her foot, she wondered if anyone but the employee had bothered to show up. No one had. Sighing softly, she figured it was for the best. She really didn't want the company anyway.

If only building had air conditioning. Most of the women in her neighborhood did their laundry in the morning, or the evening, when the sun didn't turn any suspect building into an oven. She couldn't bear the stares. And so the woman came here alone, even though it made her more thirsty, and the heat sapped her strength.

Thirst. She knew the feeling all too well. It only took her an hour in this heat, surrounded by hot clothes dryers to empty her water bottle. Everyday she emptied her water bottle, and every day she headed into the convenience store to buy a fresh one. Even though the store had better fans than the laundromat, she looked forward to those even less. Better fans meant more people, and more people meant harsher stares.

She would just have to bear up and bear every moment like she did every day. Things wouldn't get better any time soon, if ever, so she'd have to accept the way things went now. As always, she'd have to settle for anything and anyone, when no one nor nothing would settle for her.

The minutes dragged on, each one making her wish she lived somewhere else, as someone else. As she waited for her clothes to dry, she noticed a man outside. He wore a plaid shirt and ragged jeans, and his hair seemed a bit unkempt. So far, she didn't find anything out of the ordinary, except for what he carried in his hand. She swallowed, recognizing it as a leather bound book with gold print.

BEEP! The dryer called from across the aisle. She walked toward it, pulling her hot clothes out slowly, hoping the man outside would walk away. He didn't. Why would he even be here? Bible thumpers didn't come here, not to laundromats in trashy neighborhoods. They just didn't. So why him?

She picked up her basket, heading toward the door and slipping out as inconspicuously as she could. Unfortunately, the chime on the door gave her away. Turning quickly, she tried to duck away from his glance. It didn't work. Thankfully he didn't follow when she walked away...yet.

The water bottle purchase went through without anything unusual, and it served to get her hopes up.  The sight of him served to dash any hopes she had of avoiding him, and anything he had to say. She walked past him quickly, hoping something would distract him. It didn't.

"Excuse me, miss."

She didn't stop to look, she only slowed her pace.

"Could I have a drink of your water?"

He seemed sincere enough. "Do you even know what I am?" She asked. "If you did, you wouldn't want to share a drink with me."

"If you knew who I am, you'd be asking me for a drink." He replied evenly.

The outrageousness of his statement caught her by surprise.

"But sir, you don't even have a water bottle...or a wallet for that matter. How do you plan on giving me water?" Her eyes narrowed. "Who do you think you are? Just because you're a preacher, doesn't mean your beliefs are better or higher than mine."

He took the water bottle from her hand studying it casually. "Anyone who  drinks this water will just be thirsty again. Those who drink my water will never thirst again." Then he handed her bottle back to her. His eyes met hers as he said levelly, "Those who drink my water will gain eternal life."

It would be nice to not have to buy water every day after leaving the laundromat. She could finally hide from the eyes of the public. And to never thirst again... "Please, give me this water! Then I’ll never be thirsty again, and I won’t have to come here to get water.”

"Go and get your husband."

The request caught her by surprise. "I don't have a husband." He still didn't understand....

"You're right; you don't have a husband." He smiled slightly, not to be condescending, but to show some sympathy. "Actually, you've had a husband, and four boyfriends before. The woman you're living with right now is your girlfriend."

Okay, maybe he did know. In fact, he knew more than she felt comfortable with. "So maybe you do know something." She quirked an eyebrow expectantly as she asked "How can you be sure that you have the only way to heaven? The only right way to worship?" Turning her head to glance around the street, she added. "We're good people with good intentions. How could God exclude us?"

"Who are you to judge God? You hardly know him." She could see a sparkle in his eyes, as if he had seen the punchline and she hadn't. "Salvation comes through me, and there will come a day when how you worship God won't matter, except that you do it truthfully and in his Spirit."

"I know a savior is coming, who'll explain everything to us." She folded her uncomfortably, wishing she knew what was so funny.

"I am the Savior." His grin exploded onto his face.

"You are?" A car blaring its horn a short distance away diverted her attention away. A moment later she turned her head back to the man only to see him gone. The woman only knew of one thing to do. She left her water bottle and her laundry at the laundromat as she walked away.

Soon walking didn't seem fast enough, and she ran. She pounded her feet against the pavement as she made her way back to her neighborhood. Knocking on doors and making phone calls, she told everyone she could think of what she had seen and heard. Some followed, some didn't. At first she didn't know where to lead them, until she spotted it back at the laundromat. The preacher had left his book behind, leaning against the wall on the sidewalk.

She knew exactly what to do now.

Salt in the Wound

Something cathartic would help:

A little candy-coated sympathy,

A drop of tough love  cough syrup, or

A constructively criticizing get-well gift.

I need more than a hand to hold mine,

I need an arm to lean on to, and

A footstep to follow with mine.

I don't need salting gossip.

I don't need frying publicity.

I don't need a journalist for a nurse,

So send in a clown instead.

(At least he can make me laugh.)

Classified Ad

Kidney for Sale! Kidney for Sale! Black market kidney for Sale! Costly kidney for sale!

Comes with pot-infected vessles, but from an otherwise healthy owner. Original owner can not guarantee his moral health or mental heath.

Kidney comes complete self-doubt, incrimination, and a lack of ethical boundaries. Buy at own risk (and the risk of others.)

Plot can be a rather cruel master

How could you!?

All these moments past,

Pages turned,

And thoughts tightly wound up in such a story...

And you give me this!?

I thought we had something, you and I,

A relationship at most,

A trusting appeasement at least.

I gave you my time, my mental energy,

Heck, even my imagination.

The least you could do is not kill off my favorite character.

I'd end what's left of our friendship,

But I haven't finished the book yet.

First in my class

I would like to start off thanking all of those who got me where I am today. My adoptive parents, who raised me these six years. They're quite an agreeable bunch, raising me from the day they found me in a ditch on the side of the road. All these weeks they've encouraged me to pursue my education, and tutored me on my online exams. I owe them a great deal.

If it weren't for my moral support, I would have never earned this diploma. I especially thank my special dry food diet, for feeding my brain as well as my body. A shout out to my toys, even the catnip flavored ones, who helped me keep my sanity. Most of all, I'd like to thank my bed, for taking up space and making me feel like queen of the household, even if I'm by far, the shortest one around.

It's truly an honor to be the first cat to earn a high school diploma, even if it's from a diploma mill.

Objection

I do confess, I felt tired that day,

Barely able to keep my eyelids from falling,

Even as they sentenced my cousin in court.

I suppose it was bad form, to open my mouth

When the judge was busy opening his.

Maybe it was a bad idea to let that yawn take its course

And allow my diaphragm to do it's solemn (and dynamic) duty.

But six months in jail?

For yawning?

With Ketchup

Slaying dragons really isn't all it's cracked up to be. First off, they smell terrible. Just one whiff of dragon's breath makes my stomach do somersaults and my head feel funny. It's difficult to even approach them, because their skin does little to block the heat burning inside.

They're difficult to reach too. Dragons tend to chose nests at the bottom of canyons, at the fard end of caves, or my least favorite: mountain tops. By the time I reach the dragon, I'm nearly too exhausted to fight. But at that point, it's kind of too late to turn back. And so I entered the 'dragon's lair', as it were.

Did I mention they're mind readers? I never dare think of anything but the dragon and its scales. If I thought about my fair maiden, the dragon would surely attack her when he'd finished with me. If I thought too much about the fight itself, surely the dragon would know my attacks before I made them. But I should avoid not thinking at all...for that would have surely lead to my certain death.

As for the reward, I'll just call it awkward. I mean...I'll call her awkward. Marrying the princess sounded like a wonderful idea...until I married her.

Traffic

A complete stop on the freeway,

An ironic twist along the way,

As I was driving home one day

My hand digging into the carryout tray,

Asking my friends 'yay' or 'nay'

To change lanes, if I may,

As I came to a complete stop on the Freeway.

Having a Cake and Eating it Too

The smoke gathered around the smell of cooling bodies. Everything from the last toe to the last finger laid in silence, save for the clattering of forks. Two men sat in fortified thrones on a marred hill in a scared valley, oblivious to the destruction without forgetting its cause. They licked the frosting from their fingers, ignoring the taste of blood they had been taught to crave.

One glanced at the other. "Good cake, isn't it?"

"It is." The other replied, as he twiddled the fork in his fingers. "Why did we never share our cake before?"

The first thought it over as he took another bite. "I suppose it was selfish impulse."

The second stood up with a start. "Are you calling me selfish!?"

Then the first had to stand up, to defend his honor. "You dare question my judgement?"

Finally, they both threw down their forks, and abandoned their cake. And so the war began again. The two men never discovered why they never stopped to have two peaceful slices of birthday cake before.

Troubling Statistics

The mayor met with the coroner

On the morn, after the night.

"Dear Coroner! I've heard the most distressing news!

It seems one out of one people die!"

The coroner frowned, glancing almost guiltily at the casket next to him.

"It's true, Mr. Mayor, but I'm afraid I can't do much about it.

I bury people. I don't raise them from the dead."

The mayor's eyes on the mayor's head stretched like the ripples from a raindrop.

"But coroner! Can't you prevent them from dying?"

The corner frowned, sadly, regretfully, like he had just killed a kitten.

"I'm afraid not.

Even if I could, wouldn't that put me out of a job?"

The mayor quirked his head like a dial on a clock.

"I suppose you're right, Coroner.

We'll just have to let them die as usual."

When does the heart stop longing?

When does the heart stop longing? When it falls in love? But when we fall in love our hearts long more for that special someone, and in some cases grow cold and long for someone else. Does it stop when we find a job, a bonus, a pay raise? Or do we just long for more money, and more jobs, and more time? Does it stop longing when the world becomes a perfect place? Or does it long for pain to make comfort a reality?

Does it stop longing when we fill it with drugs, alcohol, self-injury, and self-harm? Or does it long more, because it cries for a cure?

When does the heart stop longing? When it dies? Or do we long for more time, and more chances?

Why I'm Still Single

I won't slow down.

I'm not afraid of the monster's I've shot down with my arrows;

Their eyes and their words and their wayward hands have no power over me.

Run as fast as you can, and we'll see if you can keep up.

I've seen other girls fall for apples, even golden ones,

But don't expect me to stray for a piece of forbidden fruit.

I've been shot down, I've been rejected,

But I'm not going to stop to fall down and cry.

I've wrestled with ideas and forces people prefer not to think about.

I'm not opposed to romance, or marriage

I'm just opposed to men who can't run fast enough win the race.

Any guy is welcome to try, though he might lose his head in the process.

Not just any guy can win, only those who can keep up, and beat me to the finish line.

So if you love me, try and keep up.

If I like you, I might just give you a head start.

If I don't like you, I'll put on armor even if it slows me down a little.

Either way, I'll probably still win.

My perspective

It's not easy being the woman that all my children have come to hate. They may not think it outright, but I can see it in their eyes, and their clenched jaws. I don't really blame them; I'm part of the reason they're miserable. My mistake and its consequences have continued to echo throughout mortality, in my children and my children's children.

I suppose I should just let it go, I can't do much about it now. That's the thing about guilt though, it seeps into the cracks of my mind and heart and it doesn't let go. It still won't let go of that forbidden fruit I ate, even after it turned to ash in my mouth. Even now, I can still taste it: Death.

I'll still say, long after my physical end, that it wasn't completely my fault. I doubt anyone will believe me to be anything but I wasn't the only one who ate it. God cursed him too, so not all of it comes from me. Sometimes I find it hard to believe I'm cursed for believing a lie, when I knew it wasn't the truth in the first place.

Heading Home

I never could forget those moments

Below the sound of gun fire

And the roar of planes overhead.

Sometimes I wish I could,

So I wouldn't be obligated to share them.

But now my time is drawing near,

And I'm being called home from the battlefield in my mind.

It's time to put down my guns, my gear, and my baggage,

And write the letter my hand would never let me write.

It's time to tell my story, before I become another casualty.

Hearing Things

We all gathered round and stared at the matching sets of wood, fastened together. The pastor talked about their strong, grounded marriage, with love that overflowed. In the outpouring we smelled something sinister, but we didn't dare speak ill of the dead.

Could the dead hear our thoughts, over the wailing and the tears? Could they hear us over the loss, the hum of the reporters next door? Could they hear the whispers of the children, the needy children, the children left alone? Could they hear it through the two caskets lined with velvet? Could they hear the questions, and the scrutiny?

Something told me they couldn't hear a thing. It wasn't the satin lining. It wasn't the white-noised whispers. It wasn't the buzz of the reporters next door. It wasn't even the wood bound firmly together. It was death. The Grim Reaper himself had covered their ears.

Monkey see...

Watch me on TV,

Watch me watch my dreams come alive.

Watch me, as I watched them once

Watched them come alive.

A little bit of pain, a little bit of agony

Is worth the explosion of light for everyone to see,

For everyone to watch, live on tv.

They'll remember me, alright, on Memorial day,

More than they remember the logo, the image I've destroyed.

To Heidi Kline

It didn't matter if I was a

Kitty, a Hippie Chick, in the Mafia (or the card one), or just a 6th grader,

When we rode in a van to the beach,

Probably going a little too fast, and growing a little too fast,

As we blasted surfer rock from the stereo,

And songs about breakfast.

It didn't matter what our moms said about too much candy,

You'd let us eat it all in the backseat, and smile when we got carsick,

Instead of saying "I told you so."

I only knew you as a mentor for 12 months or so,

But those twelve months changed every month after

And taught me to be weird for a smile and a laugh

I guess I wrote these lines, to thank you for being weird for 12 months at least,

And I hope your kid ends up weirder than me.

Obstacles

Only one thing stands in the way of achieving my dream, the blue ninja bunnies. Don't laugh. I mean it. Do. Not. Laugh. Nothing, and I mean nothing, tops the stealth of bright blue fuzzy bunnies that I can never see coming. And they're pretty vicious too. The bunny in Monty Python and the Holy Grail had nothing on them. (And I mean had, they probably killed him too, with cotton balls.)

I can hear them though, chewing their carrots. Don't call me crazy either. The very word 'crazy' makes them blood-thirsty.

I have found one method of keeping them at bay though. Simply put two stereos (or two computers, or two tvs) next to each other, and put a country cd (the most patriotic and honky-tonk one available) in one, and the most dirty gangsta rap cd in the other. Play them simultaneously. It'll stop the rabbits in their tracks, but it won't kill them directly.

It'll simply tick off any country lover or rap fan within hearing distance. There's a lot of them around here, and they all have something in common. They either love country and hate rap, or they love rap and hate country. Hearing both at the same time will make them murderous like a blue ninja bunny who hears 'crazy.' Those poor blue ninja bunnies don't stand a chance.

Rest in Peace

"Go to bed without dinner," they told her. So she did, without eating a bite, without a complaint.

And she never woke up. She's probably still sleeping, they thought, as they zipped her up in a sleeping bag. They looked at her and thought, she looks so peaceful, let's not wake her up with our noisy house, and so they put the sleeping bag in a garbage can, with her inside.

Weeks and months went by, and still she didn't wake up. They needed to move, but she seemed so peaceful, and she felt frightfully cold. So they kept her in the sleeping bag, and put her in the shed, thinking she'd miss her home if they brought her to another state. They told no one where they put her, or about her prolonged sleep, for fear someone would disturb her, or so they told themselves.

Big Brother

I read her diaries,

Her journals with pink ink,

Looking for something a bit more red and sinister.

I tapped her phone calls about boys and toys,

Listening for terrorists and attacks.

I suppose I'm a bit paranoid,

Storing her favorite candies, canned foods, and soda in the cellar,

And isulating the room with concrete.

But she'll thank me one day,

When disaster finally strikes this 'burb in the middle of nothing important,

and she'll finally remove the restraining order.

Fine Line

"Not a whole lot of difference between blue and grey, is there." She said as a matter of fact, fanning herself with silk and wood.

Her friend sat next to her, smoothing the fabric over her nortorious hoop skirt. She glanced up at the smoke, and shrugged. "I suppose not." Following the sound of cannon fire, she quirked her head. "Although...."

Turning her head, the one with the fan glanced at her. "What?"

"Wearing a blue uniform or wearing your own grey one can decide whether or not someone will shoot you out there, on the grass."

She shook her head. "Doesn't decide who gets shot, just who shoots them." As if on cue, someone fell in the field, and didn't rise again. A medic walked over to him, checked him over, and shook in head. Too late.

"It's not a very civil war, is it?"

"Not at all."

Irony in Irons

They sat in chairs next to each other, with their hands reaching behind them. Neither said much with their mouths. Both prefered to speak with their eyes. One glanced about the room, unsure of his situation and the consequences of it. The other stared straight ahead, too numb to care. He fiddled with his hands, ignoring the feel of the metallic cuffs on them.

The light above their heads flashed on, and they heard a sharp click to their left. One turned to look, the other ignored the clicking boots on the concrete floor. Within a few steps two pairs of black shoes stopped in front of them. A voice coughed gruffly to get attention from one, while the other didn't need prodding.

Eventually they both glanced up to see cold eyes. The eyes glanced back, expectantly, though they never seemed to recieve anything in turn. Mouths on the visitors' faces moved, but the mouths on the faces on the bodies bound to the chairs stayed firmly closed. They knew it would only take a little prying.

It seemed strange, being forced to talk when they had been punished for speaking out in the first place. They didn't dare speak now, for fear that more would come to join them. They had to protect the others, so they could speak out loud. One seem resigned to the fact that he may never speak again, while the other seemed terrified.

One of the interrogators reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife, and the light flashed off of the blade. In that flash they saw their entire lives for a second, and then the it. vanished.

Show and Tell

I suppose I could show you the skeletons in my closet,

But please don't mind, they're a bit dusty.

They creak if you prod them too hard,

And they're kinda fragile.

To be honest, I'm not quite sure why I'd show them to you in the first place,

Except maybe to see the look on your face when I finally show you the

Inky dark places, the old places, the worn places,

The cob-webbed places.

Why I stay up all night

Some people stay up to save the world. Firefighters keep the city from burning down. Doctors and nurses stay up all odd hours of the night to save lives. Counselors prevent suicides, and teachers fulfill roles they never receive pay for.

Some people stay up to get hard work done. Students make up for time procrastinated. Parents wake up at odd hours to defeat the evil side of the sandman, mop up floods of tears, and deal with messes they long forgot about. Businessmen stay up past heavy eyes and aching limbs to punch and crunch numbers on a calculator their minds struggle to wrap themselves around. Creative eyes pry themselves open to watch the brushstrokes reach toward a nearly non-blank canvas.

Others stay up to do things they wouldn't dare get caught doing during the light of day. Thieves break into places they shouldn't. Male and female eyes rove  city streets watching things they wouldn't bear witness to in the morning. Otherwise good people sink to temptations they'd be embarrassed to talk about.

As for me? I stay up for absolutely no reason. I count ceiling blemishes because they exist. The sheep I count every night all have names, and different colored bows. I suppose I could say I have a sleeping problem, but it seems more like an addiction to staying awake.

Round-Up-Roundabout

Whisk me away to the dance at the barn,

Like that egg yoke you used for the cookies.

And I'll sit in the passenger seat and spin my yarns,

Like any third-generation cowgirl-turned-city girl should.

We can park by the trees my dad calls cedars

And you can pull out that flashlight until we get inside.

And I can sip my apple cider, and wonder if that girl's cider

Is sweeter as she sips it on the other side.

A love song from my nose

Oh aroma, how I missed thee, and our coffee dates together. I knew the moment we met that I didn't need a boyfriend, because guys smell strange anyway. But it's always guaranteed that you'll smell perfect. And you ask nothing of me when I walk inside, sit down, and enjoy your presence. You just tingle my senses and make me feel perfect. I never have to worry about commitment with you; you exist in the moment.

Your scent tingles my senses and empties my mind of everything uncomfortable, including my ex-boyfriend, the double shot. He always left me with a high, and then a low. And then...the caffeine addiction. I just felt like he left a lot of baggage. We're better off without each other, I suppose. He just asked too much of me, and my pocketbook.

Who needs to invest in a relationship when you can just smell coffee? It gives me the same emotional high. I can't say I've ever loved someone. Maybe I've felt love, or it could have been a caffeine high.

A Post-It Note to My Angel

(After Charles Wright)

Lead me away from nightmares

And lead me away from pipe-dreams

That was over my head at night.

Take me away on the morning tide

And guard me with your angel wings

Against sneaker waves and spastic drivers.

Remember me when you report to Heaven,

Michael, God, and my older other.

Tell them not to worry about the fall I had this morning;

The bruise'll heal soon anyway.

Parking Garage Precautions

Owners never light them well enough

Patrons tend to favor bigger cars,

With darker windows.

That could hide terrorists,

Kidnapers,

Monsters,

Dragons,

Even street rappers.

A health teacher told me once,

To carry my keys barred when I walk out the door,

As if that would stop a dragon.

But maybe it would stop a street rapper.

Last meal

If anything, I'd want my last meal to consist of a sandwich. I've always loved pasta, but it would probably turn into a big fat lump of chewed gum in my stomach. It would have to be a tuna sandwich, so I could annoy the person that finally destroys me with fishy breath. Then again, maybe pasta wouldn't be so bad then. I could always vomit on my murderer.

But a hero has to die dignified. Yeah, you heard me, a hero. Real Heroes don't vomit, at least in public. If I had any sort of precognitive abilities, I'd predict exactly what the villain would be allergic to. If nothing else, his eyes and throat would get puffy just by touching me. That's justice.

Familiar Secrets

Something said my name

From underneath my bed,

As I grew still beneath the sheets,

In the spreading shadow of the night light,

And the sliver of light under the door.

But the door seemed leagues away

And the monster that much closer,

Underneath the law of nothing but dark of night and the call of hunger.

When I heard my name again,

It sounded far,

Like the name of the next child had been called by his mother,

To his room three houses down.

Or maybe the teddy bear I lost that day had come to me, from

Fighting bigger monsters in a darker land,

That grown ups had forgotten.

Friend to friend, I called back,

Past my bedtime,

And my teddy bear told no one.

What Would Your Mother Say?

What would your mother say, standing there with her face in her hands? What could she say, that you'd actually hear through the wood and the padding? What could you see in her eyes past the tears? What would she do with those stars and stripes they're handing her on a cloth, much too small to cover your empty bed? What would she say to the others standing around her, trying to comfort her with their hands, their eyes, their mouths?

She would say she's proud of me.

A Walk Through East Jerusalem

The tour bus rolled to a stop but didn't open its doors quite yet. Shadows rustled behind shaded windows, eagerly anticipating the stop. Meanwhile the engines whined and hissed, before finally settling into silence. A hawk cried through the sky as it glided on drafts of air. On the streets below vendors displayed their wares for all potential customers to see. Finally the doors opened, and the rustling increased.

First out came the tour guide, a short woman with curly hair, sunned skin and a crooked nose. After her streamed a single file line of men and women glancing about with their eyes and their camera lenses. The line collapsed into a swarm of eager eyes and chittering mouths. They half-listened with their ears while they half-watched the world around them through the lenses of their cameras.

I on the other hand, ate my fallafal and pita bread as I tried to shut out the noise. With my feet planted on the sidewalk, my eyes took in the two streets, the alley way on across the street, and the door two booths away. Even when on vacation I couldn't help but identify all the possible exits. Glancing at my makeshift meal, I tried to block out what had become instinct.

One bite of the crunchy treat and I wondered if someone had poisoned it.Sighing, I tossed my meal in the trash and pulled out my camera. I snapped a few pictures before I realized I had been searching for evidence. Evidence of what? A stray cat sitting by the bus? The man with the hair gelled so heavily I could snap needles off of it? The girl with a bomb strapped to her chest? ....

So much for a vacation.

Basically, when you encounter a suicide bomber, you have one of three options. You can run, you can scream, or you can try to stop the bomber, all of which will makes the girl to pull the trigger. You could shoot her hand off, but there's no guarantee that one shot will take out both hands at the same time, and it only takes one hand to trigger the bomb.

If you have rifle loaded with disruptor shells, you can hit the trigger with a casing filled with water and avoid igniting the explosives. Though, if you're on vacation overseas, airport security usually removes this option , and you'll be lucky to even make it to your destination. Liquid nitrogen could be used to freeze the wires, and disable the triggering system, but good luck finding that in a street market. You could put pressure on her coratid artery, but you might have trouble getting close enough to her neck.

In some cases the bomber will choose to use a wireless trigger because they allow more subtlety before the blast. This counts in your favor because a wireless signal is a lot easier to disrupt than a wired one. You could call a bomb squad, but that takes too much time. Thankfully, when vacationing in a tourist trap, satellite dishes with strong broadcast signals aren't too hard to come by. All a spy has to do is call the nearest TV news station, and wait for the reporters to take the bait.

Within a couple minutes they'll come roaring through in her van, eager to broadcast the news first. They'll park their van, bust out the cameras, and turn on their satelite router. The actual difficult part is getting the trigger from the bomber's hand before the news crews leave. I prefer the subtle approach. Simply sneak up on her using the reporters as body shields, and grab the trigger.

Of course, if the mob of reporters knock you into her, things get a bit more complicated. You'll have to move quickly to knock the trigger away from her hands as you tumble to the ground. And once the press vultures get close enough, they'll likely send the trigger skittering into a mob of tourists, allowing you to disable the bomb.

And once you can get away from the reporters, and the wannabe bomber, you can enjoy a fresh serving of fallafal, and hope it isn't poisioned.

My Dream House

Is a house of kaleidoscopes,

Solid colors,

Stairs and stairs and stairs, that sometimes lead nowhere but

Down.

Windows always show partly cloudy days,

And a living room is nothing more

Than a stepping stone

To exploration.

At least one room is filled to the brim with balls,

But I've yet to discover Randall Munroe.

And the neighborhood?

Don't even get me started.

I Want What She Has

When I add a cat to a thunderstorm, I'm supposed to get a wet cat, right? This time I didn't. She's been shedding like crazy, long after the storm's over. I think something's up, something...unusual.

Cat's have always given me the impression that they know more than they let on. They'll argue with me over the weather, but when I try to get their attention, they'll just wiggle their ears as if the reception's bad. Then they'll take naps on my lap like they care about nothing else, and then suddenly they'll interject their commentary into my conversation.

Do they really hate each other like they imply when they hiss at each other? Do they have secret meeting places? Dry ones? Force fields?

Perhaps, they've kept it a secret all along. I think they're from another planet. That has to be it. Cats, my friends, are aliens.

When You're 12 Years Old

It makes no difference,

If your mother's angry at you, or her ex-husband who made her angry

When you're 12 years old.

It doesn't matter if your father's beating your mother

Or the mother that beat him years ago,

When you're 12 years old.

It doesn't matter if your uncle wants you dead

Or the uncle that nearly killed him 22 years ago,

When you're 12 years old.

It doesn't matter who caused the blood to pool around your head,

When you're 12 years old and dead.

Filler

(Inspired by a Blindside Song)

Is there anybody less empty than me?

Is there anybody less empty without being full of themselves?

I always see hearts filled with green bills and silver coins,

Wedding rings and bridal gowns,

Contracts and high-rise offices,

Photographs with possessive smiles.

But I also see the insecure cracks,

The doubting holes,

The gaps gasping for air.

Is anyone full?

Is anyone fulfilled?

Apology Accepted

She sat on the front steps, staring at the yard. The wind brushed bumps across her skin as she watched the sun hide behind the horizon. If only she could do the same. Fiddling with her shoe laces, she watched the same wind caress the lawn outside. He should probably mow it soon, though tonight felt like the wrong time to ask.

The door creaked open behind her, and the hairs on her neck stood up. For some reason she didn't bother to look. She could only expect one person to come through that door. He didn't bother to say anything, as he sat down six inches from her. Normally he sat around two, but two inches didn't feel right tonight. Finally, after they both stared at the yard they knew by heart, they glanced at each other. Searching each other's eyes, they smiled.

Just a Little Bit, More

I suppose I could grow five inches taller. I could shrink two inches thinner. I could even make my hair three shades lighter. Would that make you like me four degrees more?

Or maybe I could climb one more mountain, swim one more ocean, run one more mile. I could write one more song, save one more life, cook one more meal. I could change just once more, would things between us change?

But we both know the secret you've never kept, but I've refused to believe.

I can change a thousand ways a thousand times, and you'd remain unchanged. All those times before I even tried to earn your love, you loved me. And even past all the times I'll try to do more, change more, save more, it won't make you love me more. I think I love that, and hopefully I won't try to change it.

Fluency

I speak the language

Of nodding heads,

Snapping fingers,

Tapping toes,

Raised eyebrows,

Coughs in crowded elevators,

Frowns in cheerful songs,

Tapping fingers on empty counters,

Persistent gazes past distracted conversations.

If only you could understand it as fluently.

Just the Little Things

What do I do to take care of this planet? Nothing too spectacular. I just save lives, every day.

Every hand I shake, every smile I make could prevent a suicide. Every small favor I do could prevent an act of violence, or an act of terror. Every time I wash my hands I could prevent a disease from killing thousands. Every tree I plant can preserve water supplies for millions. Every word I say could change one mind...which could change another.

Of course, I don't work solo. I can save one life, but it takes a lot of individuals to save an entire world. It's sad though, how many don't realize how much they can change their circumstances. Some don't even care; I call those people villians. I guess I care. I guess that makes me a hero.

I could wear  a cape I suppose, but I wouldn't tell you that over coffee, now would I?

The Day I Arrived at the 13th Floor Part IV

Not much happened for what seemed like hours. I hadn't been there too long before boredom made me try the fasteners on the straitjacket. They had shiny metal and intricate structure in the buckles, and I seemed to lose track of time trying to put them together. Try after try I failed to fasten the sleeves behind behind my back. Leaning against the wall, I decided to fold my arms instead.

It's amazing what boredom can lead to. I'm not quite sure when I started to hum the alphabet....or maybe I hummed Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. Either way, I started humming it to pass the time...or maybe to entertain myself. Either way, I forgot about finding an exit. Somehow humming turned to singing. I wished I had a bottle of water. Pretty soon my voice went hoarse without any water to replenish it, but I didn't stop singing, until someone interrupted me.

The door opened, revealing a white hallway...with tiles on the floor outside. I only saw a shadow of a person, holding something in their hand. Stepping forward, the figure chimed flatly: "It's time for your meds."

I stiffened, seeing a nurse with a needle in the full light of the padded room. "Where am I?" The question seemed appropriate for the first time that day.

The nurse smiled sweetly, like she would to a feral dog. "Same place you always are, Parge's Asylum."

I blinked, backing up against the padded wall behind me. "You've got it all wrong! I work in an office building! I'm an accountant!"

She winked with a sparkle in her eyes as she grabbed my arm. "Yesterday you told me you were a straightjacket tester. What will it be tomorrow? A professional bungee jumper?"

"But... I have a driver's license.  Let me show you." I fumbled in to reach in my pockets, but straightjackets sleeves had been designed to be too long. I couldn't reach that far.

She didn't respond. "It's in my wallet! In my pocket!" I became more hysterical by the second.

"Calm down now, just a little poke is all." She said soothingly, as she cleared an area on my neck.

With tears running down my face I whimpered. "Please...don't. I don't belong here." I'm pretty sure she couldn't hear the last word bathed in a sob. Then the needle reached my skin, and she forced some medicine into my veins. I blacked out.

These days I spend on what I think is the 13th floor, but I'll never know because they never let me leave. I still wonder if I truly had a life outside of here...or if they're telling me the truth. One day I will get out, and I will learn what exists beyond the 13th Floor.

December, 2008

We were in a bind that day.

When the semi's engine died,

Halfway to Nowhere,

Where we meant to make a delivery

To  a Mom & Pop's store.

We wore the scarves

We meant to deliver,

As the blizzard blew

On through the fierce cold

And sat on bricks as

We tried to eat a cold dinner,

Parked askew on the side of the road,

On the way to a Mom & Pop's store

And halfway to Nowhere.

Okay...maybe this is more like Weird Prose

Oops!

This was your

Jacket I just stained,

That you

Were going to

Wear

Out Tonight,

Forgive me,

It was very pretty,

So soft,

And now multi-colored.

In Rememberance

Happy Memorial Day. I'm the guy you forget. I'm the gravestone you pass by because it lacks a name. I'm the grave with only unidentifiable cracking bones. People remember me as blank slate. Or maybe they remember me as a rose that one person left for me last year. It's pretty dried up right now, I can barely tell that it even came from a living plant.

I guess I'm okay with it, being forgotten. I can't do much about it, being dead. I bet you can remember me, even if it means just conjuring up a black and white image of your great uncle Fred, and give him blonde hair instead of brown. I'm pretty sure he won't mind either. It'll be a start anyway.

No, it's okay. You can leave the dried rose. I kind of like it. It suits me. I'm not really sure when I'll get my next one.

Shel Silversteen, I Salute You

Sneezes,

Always messy.

Right,

Almost Never.

__________

Jumps,

And

Everone

Looks,

Laughs,

Yelling

"Nice!"

_______________

Puke

Isn't

The

Trendiest

Outerwear,

Currently

Known.

Through Rose Stained Glass Chapter I Scene I

The office sat wearily, even the light sank to the floor on beds of dust. Pieces of paper, once white, had turned yellow with age. Five fingers tapped the desk languidly as two eyes roved the room for some clue as to the time. A sigh fell from his chapped lips as he stood up. He didn't bother to adjust his suit as he trudged across the room to pull the clock from the wall. The batteries had died again.

He pushed his bushy chestnut hair out of his face as he headed back to his desk, dead clock in hand. Fumbling through his desk drawer, he searched for batteries, but found none. With a sigh, he wearily glanced at the frosted glass in his office door. Did he really want to talk to her? Not particularly, but he probably should anyway. After all, he paid her to be his secretary and receptionist for something, though at the moment he didn't know what it was.

He reached for the knob, and took a deep breath as he turned it. Somehow, talking to her took a lot more energy than it used to. At one time she could renew him with energy, and now she seemed to suck it right out of him. He opened the door and stepped into the front room. The secretary in question leaned over her desk, trying to sort through all the piles of paper in vain. It made him wonder why she bothered.

"Do you need something, sir?" She glanced up at him curiously, the light from the lone lamp in the ceiling reflecting of her glasses. Her eyes shone blue, starkly contrasting with all the faded golds and browns that stained the office.

At first, he didn't respond. He just stared at her, wondering how they had come to this. Maybe her age made a difference. It certainly didn't when they first met, at her interview. She had stood out from the rest, then. Maybe he shouldn't have hired her to begin with. It's not like she had the most skills or experiece....but she had a smile that made him melt. To go with it she had a voice that could make any man's head turn, or at least it seemed that way at the time. Now the mere sound of it made him want to hide under his desk.

Even with all that, he still hadn't worked up the urge to fire her. "Do you have any AAA batteries?"

"Er...sure." She seemed like she wanted to shrug off his odd request, but she still needed to work on her acting skills. Rumaging through the bottom drawer, she found a few batteries. "They might work, but I don't know. They're kind of old."

"Like everything else in this place." He muttered, then he added at vollume she could hear: "Next time keep fresh ones in stock." Hopefully he wouldn't allow her a second time. Hopefully he'd finally scrounge up the willpower to let her go.

The phone rang. He waved his hands, in hopes she would get the hint and tell the person on the phone that he   was out of his office. She didn't. Picking up the phone, she chimed "Patterson Private Investigation, this is Kelsey. How may I help you?"

Patterson bit his lip, as he watched Kelsey take notes on the pad in front of her. He should have seen the red flags the first time they met, but he didn't. And now he had the chance to pay for his mistake every time they worked together. Like now, for instance.

"Oh, yes, just a moment please." She looked up at him expectantly, and he wished he could hide.

Patterson summoned up the nerve to take the phone from Kelsey's hand. He dragged it up to his ear, and cleared his throat. "Patterson speaking."

"Portland P.D. We have a case for you."

He rubbed his face tiredly as he scrounged his brain for an answer. "You'll have to give me more to go on than that. I'm not telepathic."

"Remember that gang homicide case a year ago?"

"They already convicted somebody. You're wasting my time." He started to hand the phone to his secretary so she could end the call.

"Wait!" The officer pleaded.

Sighing, Patterson brought brought the phone up to his ear. "What is it now?"

"It made the news, remember? And now, a somebody's committed a murder nearly identical to it, even when the convict's still in jail."

He shrugged his shoulders, trying to muster up the patience for this. "What's your name, Officer?"

"Peter Randall."

Patterson rubbed his forehead. "Listen, Officer Randall, that homicide happened because of a gang fight. It's probably just a copy cat killer in the same gang. Call me when you have a legitimate case for me to work on."

"Just come and check out the crime scene. It's too similar to have been done by another person. I'll even buy you some coffee."

Pinching his eyes shut, Patterson thought it over. "Alright, but it better be some good coffee."

Shadow Fly

This is a shadow fly.

It lives in slights of hand, behind sun rays, stars, and souls.

A shadow fly eats spirits, slips, and stews.

It likes searching, sneeking, sliding, and swimming in dark lagoons.

It sings, shares, strikes, and slips into sentences like Freud.

Today it slithered into the shadows of my subconscious,

Screamed, and slipped into my poems.

When Opportunity Knocks

The other day she knocked on my door. I glanced through the peep hole and didn't recognize her. She never came often, and it had been quite a few years. Knocking with a smile on her face, she seemed to sense my interest. This had to be a door-to-door salesman. She couldn't be coming to me.

I turned the knob and glanced at her through the crack. She seemed...nice, but in an unnerving way. When she asked to come in, I hesitated. My house didn't seem right for her, so we went for a walk.

She led me across the street and down a few blocks, and we talked about my life. Strange, for she hardly talked about hers. The whole world felt different with her around. Every scent, every sound, every sight seemed to overwhelm me. Did opportunity make everybody feel this way?

She led me to her house, opened her door, and invited me in. Again I hesitated. Frowning slightly, she motioned me in. I stuck my foot in the door. Tapping her foot impatiently, she waited. Still, I didn't go in. The time didn't feel right, the place didn't either. I left, hoping she didn't lock the door when she closed it.

Hair

It's funny how we put so much into it,

 Building a tower of hairspray and gell,

Letting it cascade down our shoulders like the venerated Nile,

Shining it with oil like we're polishing a golden calf.

But it's dead, deader than Elvis,

(Depending on who you talk to)

Deader than Jesus was

(though we've never found the body)

Deader than C.S. Lewis,

(though we gossip about him like an old friend.)

In fact, when the barber snips it off,

We wouldn't feel it any differently

Than if he used a claymore or a pair of scissors.

We know it's just dead skin,

Deader than Elvis,

But we don't believe it.

Spotlight

See me? No...look over here! Gah, not there either. Over here. There, finally. Hey, I look just fine normally, it's just that this light is blinding me. I hate attention, and yet I crave it. My entire life I've been caught between the need to leave the curtains and stage fright, the need to belt out the notes and the fear of being heard.

What's in it for us that want attention, but don't? Is this what normal is? Being stuck in between anonymity and celebrity? Failure and greatness? I think the light can be turned off now, it's blinding my eyes.

The Day I arrived at the 13th Floor Part III

I stepped through the door, and once again blinked at the brightness of the room. How could anyone even sleep in here? My eyes traveled along the padded walls, but not for long. The only occupant in the room quickly demanded my attention. He had blond hair, one green eye, and one blue one. Or, at least it seemed that way at first. They seemed to change like lights at a dance club.

"Hi!" He greeted cheerily. Standing up on two legs, he walked over to inspect my elbows. Leaning each way and that, he nearly fell over once or twice. You see, his arms had been fastened behind his back by the straight jacket.

I didn't quite know what to say. 'Hello' just didn't seem appropriate. "So...you test straight jackets?"

He nodded eagerly. To demonstrate, he struggled, and writhed. The jacket didn't come off.

"So it works pretty good, then."

More nodding. "Oh, one thing." He stepped closer. "Could you unlock this for me?" Turning around, he showed me the buckles holding the jacket together.

I blinked. "Wouldn't defeat the purpose of testing it?"

He didn't move away. "No! That is the purpose."

Until I left the floor, or the room, anyway, I figured I had nothing better to do. I grabbed the buckle and undid it. "How long have you been working here?"

"Long enough." As soon as the buckle came off, a smile exploded off his face, sending his teeth scattering around the room. Hours later I still found pieces of teeth in my hair. "I'm free!" He dashed toward the door.

Finally it occured to me that I should probably ask for directions out of here, but the straight-jacket tester had already disapeared. I moved to follow him out the door...but it slammed shut. Sitting on the floor, I wondered how I would find my way out of here. I walked to the door, but the inside didn't have a handle. I walked past each corner of the room, checked the ceiling and the floor, but still I didn't find an escape.

And so I picked up the straight jacket and I put it on.

A Swim

He gulped one last breath of air before the water engulfed him. It was cold, freezing cold, and it numbed his skin. Moving his arms and legs he swam some distance before he surfaced.

The waterfall gushed swimming pools of water only a few strokes away. Morning light shimmered upon the slow moving current. Needing a rest, the man floated on his back and watched the lush green leaves dance in the breeze. Moments passed by as he pondered what he needed to do when he returned home, what his love asked of him, and the meaning behind it all.

At last he decided to return. Stroke and stroke he pushed himself upstream. He lingered one last second before he leaped out of the river. Liquid streamed down his skin as he moved from the shore to the grass above. His hand swept across the ground to pick up his towel.  Quickly he dried his body off. Loose garments glided over his body. With one last glance at the water, the man returned to where he had come from.

A Matter of Perspective

No, No, No.

You've got it all wrong!

That isn't a bunch of ribbons

It's a lion's mane

We harvested from our hunt last week.

Those aren't agates, they're opals of some grand sultan,

And we're keeping them safe while he's on vacation.

And that, my friend, isn't any old jar of wax,

It's what we seal our declarations of war with,

Before we fire our arrows,

And we seal our peace treaties with,

So we can end the wars just in time

For afternoon tea.

The Last Supper

I wonder what it'll taste like,

The last school lunch you'll make for me.

Will the juice be as sour as some of our disagreements?

Or will it be as sweet as the first hug after summer camp?

Will the potato chips be as salty like the tears you cried

On my first day of school, my first graduation, the graduation to come?

Will the fruit have the fiber you've backed me up with since I wrote

My first story,

My first poem,

My first song?

Will the sandwich have the meat of our

Dinner conversations,

Our television commentary?

Will the paper towel be as clean as the

Clothes you washed for me?

Will the lunch box look put together

In spite of a long night, a short sleep,

And an early morning?

Will it feel cold like your hands

Out of poor circulation?

Or will it feel warm, because it close,

Like you've held me, and will hold me

That morning?

Visiting Hours

The air danced about her shoulders cool and crisp. Her eyes fought to stay open. She had been up before the sun! Her feet glided across the damp lawn. It had been years since she had been here. As she walked, she kept her gaze straight ahead. Fragrant scents came from flowers carefully placed on either side of the path.

At last she stopped. One tombstone stood in front of her. She kneeled in front of the stone as her eyes drifted over the words, without reading them. Her hand lowered a single red rose to the cool earth.

No words left her mouth as she remembered the name on the tombstone. Tears began to fall from her eyes adding to the dew drops below. She touched the stone, wishing she could touch skin, warm skin. After a few more minutes she gave the grave a nod in farewell. Then she left, again ignoring the graves on either side, eager to forget the dead.

This is Where We Draw the Line

Yeah, you look all pretty in bright red shoes,

But who do you fool?

What are you selling, really?

Your music, or your body?

Your body, or your soul?

Your soul, or yourself?

You brag about how you changed from pastor's kid to a pop icon,

Like you changed from jeans to a mini skirt,

But you don't fool me,

With your juicy lyrics and swaying hips

With your black hair and your cherry lips.

I think you fool your eyes, your ears, your hands, your feet

And you think you're having fun,

But we both know you sold that too.

Frolicking

The sunlight bounced off the dancing current. Meanwhile the water gurgled and giggled its way downstream. Once in a while it would drop and splash, but it didn't mind. Beside the playful rapids a lone figure dashed to keep up. Its small bare feet pitter-pattered on the soft, warm grass. Small young squeals erupted from his mouth as his eyes followed the birds flying high above.

His blonde hair bounced as the boy scrambled up the bark of a nearby tree. He raced up the branches, as high as he possibly could go. When at last the boy poked his head through the trees the birds had become mere dots on the horizon.

Yet, the breeze wafted a familiar smell that caught his attention. He could smell the woodstove cooking dinner. In the distance, across a cornfield, the boy could see his home, with his mother waiting at the door. His adventures would have to wait for another day, it was dinner time.

The Day I Arrived at the Thirteenth Floor Part II

For a moment I couldn't see anything; the light had left so many purple and green spots in my eyes. I glanced back toward the elevator, trying to ride my head of the dull ache. Who knew that elevators could leave me with a hangover? A few moments passed and the dull ache waned, and I shakily stood up. How could I ever guess an elevator would irk my fear of heights?

I guess I found it most odd that the elevator doors never closed, even after all that time, until after I stepped out of the elevator. Thirteen steps out of the elevator, and the doors snapped shut, and the elevator, shaft, ropes, and all dropped through the floor. Curious, I turned around and walked back the way I came, and peered into the hole. Heat blasted my face so intensely that I couldn't open my eyes. Glancing upwards, and I saw clouds and heard birds singing.

Rubbing my eyes, I explored the thirteenth floor. So far, besides the creepy elevator, everything seemed pretty normal. The elevator opened  onto a hall wall, with office doors, windows, and brass name plates lining it on each side. I turned to my right and read the nameplates as I went by. They started out pretty normal as well. A doctor, a lawyer, a shrink had the offices closest to the elevator. The further I walked though, the stranger the occupations of the owners of these offices became. Frame thrower inspector, balloon blower, professional lip-syncher, the name plates read. Finally, I reached a door with a profession I couldn't ignore: straight-jacket tester.

I leaned my ear against the door and listened. Inside I could hear singing, off-key, but clearly someone at least tried to sing beyond that door. Knocking on the door, I listened more. The singing stopped.

"Wash your elbows before you enter, please." The voice requested.

As I blinked in confusion, a slot opened up next to the doorknob. Like a drive-up window at a bank a canister popped out of the slot. Inside the canister I found a washcloth and some hand sanitizer. Shrugging, I squeezed a dab of the anti-bacterial gel onto the cloth and rubbed my elbows. A camera over head buzzed curiously as it watched my progress.

"Thank you!" The voice chimed.

And then the door opened.

About Me

I am a dreamer,

A believer

A thinker

A dancer

A writer

A inker

A blunderer

A liar

A sinner

A server

A mirror of the Savior.

The Day I arrived at the 13th Floor Part I

I've never been superstitious. Sure, I always think twice before walking under a ladder, but it's not because I believe in bad luck. It's part of the reason why I've never understood the lack of a thirteenth floor in a building. Even when they change the floor numbers, there's still a thirteenth floor, it's just misnamed. I hate rising past the thirteenth floor for this very reason.

So one day I stood in an elevator of a building that reportedly lacked the unlucky floor. My eyes stared at the buttons in boredom, wishing I had laser vision so I could make the buttons melt. At least that would be entertaining. 9....10.....11...12....13....I blinked. That 13 button hadn't been there a second earlier. The elevator continued to rise.

Frantically I pressed the 13 button, but of course the elevator had already passed it. Finally, the door opened to the floor I originally chose, but now I had changed my mind. I immediately pushed the door close button, to the dismay of the person wanting to enter the elevator car. I pushed the 13 button, and the car dropped. I had to hold onto the wall, and sit on the floor for fear of being thrown.

With a final lurch the car stopped, and the elevator chimed in snide victory. Shakily trying to stand up, I watched the doors open with a burst of light.

Introducing the Model

When you look at me,

Do you see the blemishes?

The scars?

The tears?

The fat?

The freckles?

Or do you see the airbrushes?

The pixels?

The hairspray?

The makeup?

The clothes?

Do you see me? The real me? The me that likes photography in the sunlight, the me that likes chocolate on teary nights. The girl who hates her smile.

Heart-Felt Notes

Dear Bibliophile,

I've heard you have a special affection for those things called books. If the rumors have any veracity to them, then why not me? I don't mean to sound pretentious, concieted, or histrionic, but I feel a bit neglected. I'll have you know that I have quite the spine, the smarts, though I've been known to be a bit thick.

I can change, I promise! I'll rewrite every word enscribed on every leaflet between my two ends. Shakespeare has timeless sonnets, and I'll quote every love poem he ever put forth in writing if you will just open me and read these words off my pages! Or the Odyssey, perhaps? I'll tell every stanza in epic proportions so that you'll never be able to put me down.

But, if you only like picture books or pop-up books, I'm afraid I can't help you. Such things have always been beneath me.

Loquatiously yours,

Identifying Your Insecurities, By Richard Laughlin

Through Rose Stained Glass, Prolouge Part II

A soft hum lingered near the ceiling. Pastel hues drifted down on sparkling dust from the stained glass windows facing each other. Row after row of pews separated the two sets of windows as if snug in a warm embrace. A lone lectern stood on the stage at the front of the room, bearing a carved cross on its front panel. At the moment the lectern stood alone, empty as most of the room, save one person.

Said person sat one pew back, with his face in his hands. Besides the fans overhead, the room could only hear his soft, relaxed breathing. He didn't notice the stain glass windows, since other matters seemed much more important at the moment. After a few more moments in seeming silence, he opened his eyes. As he lifted his eyes to the rose-stained rose window at the top of the front wall; the pink rays cascaded down his blond hair like children on a water slide.

A smile bloomed on his face. "I'll go."

The door in the back of the small church opened with a soft creak, and a taller figure walked into the sunlit room. His steps echoed off the walls as he made his way down the aisle. A moment passed before he reached the second to front pew, but neither of them noticed. He stopped by the younger man's side, with his dark hair making the blond hair stand out even more.

"Been in here long?" The man with dark hair asked.