Father and son

Int. fenyx’s chambers. Moreilia - day

Sun hanging over the horizon. Rays shining through open balcony doors. Silk drapes lightly fluttering in the wind. The light dancing on the clean marble floors.

KING FENYX (74) and his eldest son LAZAR (34) stand on the balcony.

Fenyx has a devilish red hue to his scales. His right eye has been scarred to such a degree that it was shut tight, permanently. Three white scars run down his eye. He has a mohawk of snow white feathers running down the top of his head to the tip of his tail. Of which is half as short as it should be due to more additional battle scars.

He wears fine green silk morning robes.

Fenyx’s eldest son - Lazar - Lord Commander of the king’s guard wears his full set of golden king’s guard armor. Red scales and no feathers. His helmet in his arms. A long cloak running down to his ankles. A sword is strapped to his back, and a large hand gun holstered on his thigh.

Lazar

Are you sure about this?

Fenyx

I am.

Lazar

But he’s just a boy.

Fenyx

He won’t be for very long.

Lazar

I just don’t think he’s ready for this kind of responsibility. He’s executing prisoners.

Fenyx

The goal isn’t for him to pull the trigger. What does he have to worry about?

Lazar

I worry that he will not be able to handle the pressure of three lives in his hands. 

(then)

Let alone the pressures of his own father and his counsel.

Fenyx

Leave the council to me. No matter what decision Tacoma makes, whether to cut their throats or set them free.

(places a hand on Lazar’s shoulder)

We will be at his side.

Fenyx marches back into his wardrobe, changing into a purple overcoat with golden stitches.

Lazar follows.

Lazar

What if Tacoma doesn’t have the stomach?

Fenyx

You were next in line to take my throne. But you gave it up to be a- uh- a bodyguard. If your little brother doesn’t have the stomach to be ruler, then I will know all I need to know.

(then)

Now go fetch him, will you? And bring him to the throne room. I believe he is sleeping in, once again.

Fenyx leaves the room.

Lazar looks down, SIGHING, and rubbing his eyes.

Smash cut to:

Int. Tacoma’s chambers - day

Young Prince TACOMA (15) lays in his bed drooling onto his pillow. Red scales just like his father and thinner than his brother- less muscular. He also has gray feathers, though they are ruffled by the bedhead.

Suddenly the light in his room springs to life.

Lazar

Wake up!

A pair of Tacoma’s ceremonial robes strike his face; waking him up.

Tacoma

Wha...

Lazar

Father is waiting for you in the throne room.

Tacoma

What? Why?

Lazar

I’ll explain to you on the way, just get dressed! We are very late!

Tacoma

Can I at least stop for some breakfast on the way?

Lazar raises an eyebrow.

Tacoma

Alright, alright. Breakfast after, then?

Lazar sighs.

Int. Hallway - continuous

Tacoma had gotten fully dressed. His robes are a dark green with a golden sash wrapped around his waist. His right sleeve is a bright red.

The two brothers now walk down the hallway towards the throne room.

Lazar

I knew you’d be hungry, so I snagged you some ham and bread. Here.

He hands Tacoma the food.

Tacoma

Blood orchid seasoned?

Lazar

Just the way you like it.

Tacoma

Thanks!

(eating)

So what does father want from me today? Weapons training? Council meeting sit-ins? Oh- is it more classroom lectures? I hate those!

Lazar

It’s something different this time, Tacoma. He has a test for you.

Tacoma

What kind of test?

Lazar

A trial. We caught several pirates. Most of them are dead, except for a few stragglers. And now we have them in chains.

Tacoma

Am I sitting in on the trial?

Lazar

Not exactly.

Tacoma

What do you mean?

Lazar

I mean, you are going to do Father’s job.

Tacoma

I - what? What are you talking about?

Lazar

You have to play judge, jury, and executioner. Or you may set them free. That’s for you to decide.

Tacoma

But why me? Why can’t you do it?

Lazar

Because you’re the prince.

Tacoma

But you’re the oldest-

Lazar

I’m also the Lord Commander of the king’s guard. I gave up my birthright to the throne. Let alone my say in criminal trials.

Tacoma

But why now? I’m nowhere near- you know- all this! 

Tacoma motions to Lazar’s muscle build.

Lazar

(snickering)

Yeah. I know.

They stop just outside the towering throne room doors.

Lazar pulls out a large knife.

Tacoma

I-I don’t know, Lazar, I don’t think- this is a lot of pressure.

Lazar

Look, I know you’re nervous, but this is just a test. There are no wrong answers here. Father just wants to know for sure what kind of ruler you want to be. This is your chance to show him.

Lazar extends the knife’s handle to Tacoma.

Tacoma embraces his brother.

Lazar lightly wraps his arms around Tacoma.

Upon letting go, Tacoma takes the knife.

Tacoma

Alright, I’m ready.

Lazar nods then opens the doors.

Int. Throne room - continuous

A dark brown room. The walls reaching into the clouds. Various pits of fire dimly illuminating the room. The white marble floor has small flakes of gold mixed into it.

The room is filled to the brim with citizens coming to watch the trial.

Guards line the room.

Tacoma notices three people on their knees at the center of the room, tattered bags over their heads.

They reach Fenyx, who is standing by his throne.

Fenyx

I trust Lazar filled you in?

Tacoma

Yes, father.

Fenyx

Are you ready?

Tacoma nods.

Fenyx

(grinning)

Then let’s get started.

Fenyx motions for the bags to be removed. Each face is bloodied and beaten.

GREYTAIL (45) wears a bloodied and tattered red trench coat. His scales are white, except for a large gray splotch on his tail.

The pirate in the middle - CROW (35) - has blue scales and blue feathers. He wears worn out cloth leggings and no shirt. His chest is bloodied and bruised.

The third pirate - YLUS (24) - has dark yellow scales and no feathers. She wears a small red coat over a snow white undershirt. One eye is bruised shut and a bullet wound on her neck has been poorly stitched together.

Fenyx places a hand on Tacoma’s shoulder, instantly easing his stress.

Tacoma swallows and closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath-then exhales.

Tacoma

What is his name?

Guard

Captain Greytail, my lord.

Tacoma

What are their charges?

Guard

(clearing his throat)

Piracy, murder, conspiracy against the crown, hijacking, smuggling, and arson.

Tacoma

What do they say in their defense?

Guard

Nothing, my lord. They have remained silent since their arrest.

Tacoma marches to the captain. Tacoma kneels down.

Tacoma

(to Greytail)

I believe this is where you come in. Giving me names to any conspirators would be a nice start.

BEAT.

Tacoma

Hmph. Maybe a guilty-not guilty? That would suffice.

Greytail chuckles to himself for a moment.

Tacoma narrows his eyes.

Greytail

You’re clever, boy. But you won’t get anything out of us.

Fenyx places a hand under his chin.

Tacoma

We shall see.

(then)

I know neither of you are traders by day, so you can start by explaining to me why your vessel was found having crates filled with weapons. Weapons with Moreilian sigils on it. My sigil. I don’t remember selling you guns and ammo.

Greytail

I’m just a middle man, young prince.

Tacoma

So then who stole the weapons and who were you smuggling them to?

Fenyx and Greytail’s eyes meet. Fenyx narrows his eyes. Greytail begins to slowly lose his cool composure.

Greytail

You seem to care more about these weapons than this trial.

Tacoma

Two birds, one stone. Surely you, as a middle man, understand the value of that.

Greytail

You won’t get anything from me-

Tacoma

Yes, of course you’ve made that quite clear.

(then)

But if you can’t give me the slightest bit of information-well, you know how we do things here.

(pulls out knife in front of Greytail)

To people like you. I don’t want to kill you. Truly. But give me something I can work with, and I promise you mercy.

LONG BEAT.

Greytail

I’m calling your bluff, young lord.

After another beat, Tacoma stands up and slowly makes his way over to Ylus. Lowering himself down to her level.

Ylus raises her head to meet Tacoma’s glaring eyes.

Ylus opens her mouth as if to expose the truth. But as she darts her sight around the room, she sees Greytail scowling at her.

Ylus shakily lowers her head.

Tacoma presses one finger under her chin, raising her head back up.

Fenyx lets out a grim smile.

Tacoma

Then you are no use to me.

Tacoma swiftly thrusts the knife into Ylus’s throat. She falls to the floor. Blood pooling unto the white marble.

Greytail watches with a frustrated expression.

Tacoma

(to Crow)

Should I even waste my time with you?

Crow keeps his head lowered. Tacoma cuts his throat, too.

Tacoma

(to Greytail)

You, however, are still of use.

(to the guards)

Take him to the dungeons. And toss the bodies into the ocean, where they belong.

The guards carry out Tacoma’s orders, Lazar being among them. Tacoma and Fenyx’s eyes meet.

Fenyx nods to his son proudly.

Tacoma has a beaming smile on his face.

Garden Hammock

I open the slider leading out to the backyard.  I feel the sun on my face, but what I seek is the shade of the garden, the protection of the trees, an intensity of green-growing things, and the peace of a swaying hammock.

If I make the effort to notice, I hear a constant background chatter of cicadas.  Birds are calling to each other in the trees. As I make my way toward the hammock, these sounds become muffled by the shrubs, trees and gardens that form this shadowed haven. Then I spy my two grandchildren on their knees, heads together, watching something wriggling on the ground. I say nothing but move more slowly, trying not to disturb their investigation.

Under the trees now, I feel a cool breeze and hear a slight buzzing of bumblebees searching for nectar in a flowering berry bramble that circles one of the trees supporting the rope hammock.  The grassy ground is a little spongy today due to recent rains, so I can move undetected until I am nearly standing on top of my grandkids.

I can see now what they are seeing – a caterpillar.  This fuzzy fellow looks like the last two inches of a bottle brush, covered in yellow hairs with extra-long black and white bristles at either end.  It looks otherworldly - more like Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are than Eric Carle’s The Very Hungry Caterpillar.  No wonder the kids are mesmerized (and uncharacteristically still!).

“You guys know not to touch one of those, right?” I caution.

“Grandpa!” squeaks Isaac with a wide, welcoming grin.  He recently turned two.

“We know, Grandpa. Momma always says ‘look, but don’t touch,’” states Abigail sagely, because she just started kindergarten and is incredibly mature for her age.

“That’s a banded tussock caterpillar,” I state, not to be outdone by their wise mother, my oldest daughter. “What do caterpillars turn into?  Do either of you know?”

“Butterflies!” first Abigail, then Isaac repeats.

“Not this one. What’s like a butterfly, but not exactly?”

Silence, and that ‘give me a hint, please’ look on Abigail’s face. Isaac was back looking at the creepy crawler itself, caring less about the science of metamorphosis.

“It starts with an “m” and looks a lot like a butterfly.”

“Moth!” proclaims Abigail, pride and self-satisfaction showing on her face.

“That’s right!” I exclaim, pride and self-satisfaction showing on my face too.

“Okay, you two, Grandpa is going to take a nap in the hammock. Don’t let me bother you.  I’ll be right over here.”

I grab the near side of the hammock with both hands spread out beside and behind me. I gingerly squat until my rear touches rope.  I take a deep breath, say a little prayer, tighten my grip on the hammock’s edge and lean back.  I swing my legs up and around and recline into the hammock, letting gravity pull me down into its embrace.

“Aaaaaahhh,” I may have said out loud as my body sways side-to-side, slowing, slowing, slowing.

“Grandpa, can we get on, too?”

Silence, and that ‘can’t I just rest a bit, please’ look on my face.

“Grandpa?”

“Sure, why not?” I smile and open my arms wide.

Haleakala

Flowering silver grasses

hang onto precarious existence

in ancient lava rocks

on a wind-swept rim of

deep dead volcano.

Over us flies Pueo,

day owl, mystical messenger;

I pray his pewter wings guard us from unknown danger.

Ages and ages have passed in silence.

Far below, cinder cones

lurk in a haze of golden light.

We stand facing the sunset

hence unable to see our souls

in shadows, framed in rainbows.

Half-Fledged

Cade awoke to the trilling chirps and the rhythmic hums of birds; they were unlike the ones at home. Their chirping had meaning.

He exited the tent with his toothbrush bag. Shades of brown and green comforted him, and his brain still wondered if they were real. The trees back home never evoked such feelings, so why now? A cold wind brushed against his body, begging him to go back into his bedroll. He still needed to adjust to the unfamiliar yet calming summer mornings.

The birds continued to chirp as he brushed; the differing chirrups crossed the trees around him. He took in the scenery and noise. It would be a while before he would hear these types of sounds again. The birds in the city were always drowned out by horns and engines, by cumbersome things. Here, the birds could be as loud as they wanted to express how they felt. Nobody could contest their singing in these tranquil woods.

Once done brushing, he tossed his bag into the tent.

He surveyed the campgrounds to find a woman sitting at a picnic table. He recognized her from the night before when everyone congregated behind a fire to share stories. Her group was around his group’s age; she was in her late twenties. He had spoken to her briefly before going to bed.

“Good morning,” Cade said as he approached her. “Mind if I join you?”

She flinched, saw Cade, then calmed. She gestured at the table.

“Sorry. Did I scare you?”

“Startled, more like,” she said. “My mind is elsewhere.”

“On what?”

She pointed up to the trees. “I wanted to hear them sing. What brings you up this early?”

“They woke me up. I usually ignore them, but the ones here are different.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever encountered birds that sang such songs, yet it’s familiar.”

She nodded. “Isn’t it peaceful? My dad and I used to listen to them. He would mimic their chirps and could name the species from sound alone.”

A few minutes passed.

“Are you down for a walk?” She asked.

“Right now?”

“Yes. Now.”

“Sure.” There was hesitation in his voice. “I might need a sweater. When does it get warm?”

“It’s not that cold out. Where are you from?”

“Down south where it’s hot year-round.”

“That figures. It’ll get warm soon. You can go through the cold for a while longer. I believe in you.”

The pair walked on a gravel path. The stones’ impressions changed beneath their feet.

She said, “Did you know this park was formed across millions of years? A volcanic eruption created that caldera, the lake this park is known for.”

“Really? That’s interesting.”

“It’s true. This land was prone to earthquakes and other disasters, but now it’s this beautiful park. I like thinking about how it ended up the way it is now.”

“Like a tinier big bang? I don’t often think about these kinds of things.”

“I like learning neat facts about the world. It makes life interesting.”

She strayed from the path towards an array of boulders. She stepped onto one, then propelled herself onto another. Once she maintained her grounding, she waved him over and lent out her hand. “Do you want to see something cool?”

Cade repeated as she did, then grabbed her hand. She hoisted him up towards her. He looked down. Despite being a six-foot drop, the height surprised him. He forgot the last time he was at an elevated height that did not involve stairs or elevators.

The formation of boulders continued to rise with the hill. They were tucked into one another, but he could slip into a crevice. Don’t fall, he thought to himself.

Her legs ignited like pistons and she sprang onto the next boulder, this one about her height.

“Impressive jump, but is this safe?”

“People do it all the time. Come on, or I’ll leave you behind.”

“Just because everyone does it doesn’t mean it should be done.”

“You’re not going to move a thousand-pound rock.”

“The same can be said about snow, but one wrong move and it can trample you.”

“Mr. I’m-From-the-South knows about snow, huh?”

“I’ve seen videos.”

“I’ve been here since I was a kid. I’ve climbed these boulders with my dad before he passed away— he didn’t die bouldering, so don’t worry about that. He actually— You’ll be fine. Trust me.”

Cade skeptically jumped onto a boulder. “I can’t jump the one you did but I can manage this one.”

He became more comfortable as he traversed the boulders. His footing adjusted to the gritty stone. He even tried to push against the large rocks, to see if they would give, but they remained in place. A few slip-ups made his heart pump, but he made it to the top unscathed.

She high-fived Cade. “Now, time to admire the view.”

The campgrounds centered the park, mostly trees and hiking paths for casual visitors. Cade’s campsite was concealed by trees. To the right, miles away were the mountains he and his friends visited on their first day, and ahead were the pools of water that brought sustenance to the fauna.

The wildlife was hidden, but he knew they were roaming, swimming, flying all around. Thousands of hearts flowing blood and oxygen, their bodies breathing in and out. A conglomeration of species living together, yet amongst themselves, eating those below for food, and running away from those above. They were living.

He could still hear the lovely birds, their singing more skittish now.

“I like it here.” Cade’s voice was shaky, and he was unsure why. “Thank you for showing me this.”

She nodded in understanding.

He said, “It’s my last full day here. We leave tomorrow before noon, then it’s back to my scheduled life. I don’t want to go back.”

“What do you do for a living?”

“I work in an office in the city. I follow a to-do list and whatever my manager tells me. Not much else to it. You?”

“You’ll laugh at it.”

“It can’t be worse than working a 9-to-5 unless you do that too.”

“I want to act in movies.” Her words were prideful but singed with gloominess. “TV shows maybe? I moved away from home years ago, went to an acting school. It’s been some time now and I get acting gigs, but they aren’t worth mentioning. I do side jobs, which are my main jobs. I walk dogs, bus tables, whatever pays the bills. I’m somewhat successful with freelance photography.”

“I’m sure you’ll find something soon,” he said. “Photography? Is this a job-related trip?”

“I’ve never photographed this place, and I never will. I’m here to refresh my mind. All I’ve thought about lately is how I’m nowhere near to my goals, and about— I needed this trip.”

“You reminded me of life back there. I saw it in your eyes last night and I saw it today. I guess I wanted someone to talk to.”

The birds still sang.

“I envy the animals here,” Cade said. “Their life holds no purpose, yet they’re fine living that way.”

“They’re living but hold no purpose? What you said is paradoxical.”

“I mean all they have to do is wake up, fulfill survival needs, sleep, then repeat. They have no goals other than to survive. Bears don’t want to be actors, bison aren’t dissatisfied with their careers, and birds aren’t thinking about how mundane life is. They’re satisfied with what they have. But me? I always want more, but I never know what I want.

“My mind floods with minuscule things I don’t care about. What’s on the news? What’s today’s tragedy? I don’t want to know, but I also need to. The world around me goes on, and it feels selfish to sit back and retreat here. My mind screams at me to partake, but it’s all a distraction.

“I’ve been better since I came here. My friends locked my phone away in the car, so I have nothing to worry about, but I think I’m distracting myself again. There’s no such thing as silence for me. It’s all noise.”

Cade turned to the woman. He forgot he was talking to someone. He placed his index and middle finger on his wrist, the side closest to his thumb. His heart rate steadied.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It’s alright. It’s refreshing.”

“What is?”

“Talking to someone that struggles as I do. We won’t see each other again, and you’re revealing your troubles to me.”

“I might see you one day on the big screen. You never know.” He pondered. “We could talk for a while longer, then we’ll go our separate ways. Does that sound good?”

She placed her hand on his and said, “It does.”

***

A few miles away, a wolf pack begins its attack on two bear cubs, a brother and sister less than a year old. The separated mother searches for her lost kin.

The cubs are inexperienced at fighting, so they attempt to run, but the wolves encircle them, still cautious to the cubs’ innate strength. The wolves snarl and present razor-sharp fangs. One pounces forward, its first bite connects. The only chance for the ensnared cubs to live on is to fight back. The momentum shifts further, and the wolves realize now is the best time to advance. Lacerations ensue, and the wolves break down any point of resistance. The cubs do not survive the onslaught.

That night a mother mourns for her loss, the wolves relish in their triumphant hunt, and the birds go silent.

Honey Sweet Gold

My head is full of lead

Somebody unscrewed my skull and loaded it with gold bars

Closed it up and

Took a flame to my face

Like a welder molding iron

Glassblower with his white hot coals

Burning and burning until my skin melts off

And my hair goes up in flames

Till there's nothing left of me

Besides a skeleton

Leaking honey sweet gold

How Reading Evolved for Me

For the longest time of my life, I remember always hating reading and anything that was associated with books. I used to dread the idea of having to sit in one spot for minutes and just read words. I never understood the feeling of going to a different realm in your mind while reading a certain book. During the summer of 2019, I was introduced to We Were Liars by E. Lockhart for my summer reading.  My opinion on books had changed drastically. This book made me feel something I had never felt before; it made me imagine like I was inside a movie in my head.

         I have taken plenty of different English and Literature classes. To start off, I would like to give you some background about my life with English. I was born and raised in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, where the home language is Arabic. Now, of course, there is some of the English language there too, but it’s just the basics. Since the country isn’t very fluent in English, my parents decided to enroll me in an American International School called King Abdelaziz International School, short for AIS. From the age of 3 to the age of 12, I grew up learning all subjects in English, which really helped me become the person I am today when we moved to the United States. The main difference I noticed between the AIS school system and the U.S. school systems, is that AIS cared more about their students memorizing, rather than understanding the material. Whereas all the schools I’ve attended in the U.S. have shown me that they care more about their students actually gaining something from the information they learn in their classes.

         I think the reason I hated reading so much as a kid was because of the way my teachers approached the materials in AIS. When I moved here, I was taught that we need to experience reading as a beautiful thing instead of it being a “chore.” I started enjoying reading because I felt like I wanted to read, and not that I had to. Especially after finishing We Were Liars, I felt like I needed to give books another chance and I’m so happy I did, because I fell in love with them. Recently, my favorite genre of books has been fiction. One of my closest friends, Naya, introduced me to a book series called A Court of Thorns and Roses by Sarah J. Maas, and it is possibly one of the greatest things I’ve ever read. The attention to details and the amount of fantasy it has is so fascinating. Personally, the most challenging part for me when I read is my lack of concentration. Although I love reading now, I still have some trouble concentrating sometimes. I read the words, but I don’t understand what’s going on. My mind starts to wander while I’m reading the pages, and when I realize that, I have to go back and read again from the beginning to understand what’s happening.

         I try to not read books online just because I’d rather have a physical copy in my hands to feel more engaged in the book. However, when it comes to reading magazines, short stories, and news, I mostly use my phone to get on social media platforms and find what I could read from there. Recently on TikTok, I’ve found this website called Wattpad, where it allows people to write whatever they want and publish it. I’ve been looking into that because I like writing and I actually started writing something of my own too. I think it’s very interesting seeing what people all over the world could think thrown on a sheet of paper, or should I say “screen?”

Overall, I’m so glad I had the opportunity to move to the U.S. because without that, I’d probably still hate the idea of sitting down and reading now. My opinion on reading has changed so much to the point that I’m planning on getting my undergrad in English before it’s time for me to go to law school. Every night, I look forward to sitting in the reading corner I’ve created in my bedroom, right before bed, to read. I’ve noticed it’s a way of helping me meditate and relieve stress, especially now since courses have started back up again.

I Don’t Need a Face

The things that I have beared witness, 

To the annoyance of ears we call noises. 

And the smells too. 

I have decided that I no longer require this face. 

For it no longer makes do. 

I wish I could wipe away my face. 

Ocean eyes and rose petal lips shall be erased. 

Be gone with my emotions and my race. 

I will not care if you avert your gaze. 

Nor do I deserve gentle grace. 

No more shall I see the grayish hues. 

Or show my terrible blues. 

For I grow tired of all of the bad news. 

No reactions or words, only blankness. 

The paranoia has overtaken and left me anxious. 

Do you feel nervous of my non-existent gaze? 

For I grow tired of my ugly face.

Rotunda

I pass under ancient arches, leaving a boundless night behind me.

I hear the echoes of secrets quickly forgotten.

It was such sounds as Sister whistling like she still had the teeth of a six-year-old,

or my dog barking, even though he’s been dead now for years, 

or Grandpa chuckling in his whimsical way.

He’s been gone the longest.

Gone too are the old smells, sounds, and colors.

Cicadas don’t click the same anymore,

brownies don’t stick to my tongue like they used to,

the red velvet couch isn’t as soft as when we first got it;

But I now enter a rotunda.

Spiraling a round table, my family is gathered.

Grandma, the last matriarch, sits at the helm, shining proudly.

She welcomes me in her wise and warm way.

I take a seat.

My spot has already been prepared. 

Everyone opens their arms to me, and I open mine to them.

But this ceremony is not limited to welcome.

Even as I arrived, there was one leaving.

As I sat down, Aunt stood up, and walked through the far Northern door closing it

loosely behind her.   

Grandma told me not to mind it.

Aunt doesn’t mean to leave in a bad way, Grandma says, she’s just gone to the

other room for now.

Even the pitless stomach we came from is only another room. 

We all take turns passing through.

Run

My head slips between the cracks and corners of fragmented cement.  

Woven in the ground, my body is secure. Pulling and never letting go.  

It isn’t clear where my feet are pounding, just steady thumps synchronous with the heart that feeds it. Wind gently sweeps my skin, flourishing as the earth spins rapidly.  

Thick as blood, my sharp exterior slices its compact arrangement, splitting the world in two yet binding the realm beneath me.  

Like a knife that melts through the soft flesh of fruit and halts at the tough armor of its pit.  

Salty sweat trickles down at the wind's abrasion, yielding the fruits of labor.

Sunflowers Always Look Towards the Sun

Springs are never warm. I think they’re supposed to be, but according to the goosebumps on my legs as my dress fluttered in the wind, I was wrong. The night was stale and sour, but you smelled so sweet. Your rose perfume had faded greatly since you arrived, but out here on the balcony, I couldn’t focus on anything else. My breaths were less oxygen and much more you. Your rose perfume, your scented lipstick, just… you. I felt like there was no one else in the world, just me and you, both of our dresses fluttering in the wind. My heart beat fluttered along with it; the rhythmic pounding of anxiety and love bursting in my eardrums was so loud I couldn’t hear you speaking. Just saw your lips moving. Closer and closer, as I drowned in your perfume wondering if you were going to kiss me.

“Tell me a fun fact about flowers,” you had asked me.

It was a very easy question. Say something cool about flowers; I should be able to do that, I do run a flower shop after all. But yet, I found myself unable to give you an answer, my heart beating in my throat, choking me. We stood on the balcony of my new apartment, the chilly night air dancing by. A halo of light, the gentle warm glow from the inside lights, bloomed around your face, like the rays of the sun. That’s what you were— to me at least— the brilliant star in the daytime sky that made me feel all warm inside.

“Sunflowers always look at the sun,” I had responded.

Because they do. If you were the sun, then the whole world was a field of sunflowers, lost in the brilliance of you. And I stood among them, lost in the crowd of thousands, gazing longingly at you, hoping that I could wake up everyday to your rays and your gentle warmth. Many other sunflowers were taller or fuller or more vibrant than I was; many other sunflowers were broader and sturdier than me as well. A person on ground level wouldn’t be able to pick me out, much less a beaming, brilliant star like yourself.

But you smiled and still got closer and closer. Your lips reached my ears and whispered a sweet promise.

“Is that why I can’t take my eyes off of you?” And as you kissed me, I had to wonder if there was ever a chance that sunflowers looked at each other when they were missing the sun.

The Fathoms Below

A stone blended in with the exterior of a cliff, waiting for any unfortunate pressure to dislodge it from its pliant home. Among sturdier stepping stools, there was no evidence that revealed how insecure this stone really was. Even the wind glided past the stone, incapable of uncovering its unstable nature. The stone was large, with a triangular shape. Its surface was smooth, but the edges were sharp enough to cut the hand of any climber that dared to clutch it. The longest side of the triangle was exposed to the outside world, while the point opposite was buried into the rock wall. That tip, however, did not create enough traction for the stone to stay in place, should any strain be placed on it. 

The stone was stuck near the top of its barren cliffside home. Any sign of vegetation was gone from the harsh sun’s heated incubation of the cliff’s side. The gray rocks on the cliff were speckled in parts where the light drizzle of a coming storm darkened the crust with rain. The sunlight had been covered with dark rain clouds; its rays absorbed by the condensation. 

A third of the way up the steep bluff, two figures sprawled against the wall, trying to avoid a fatal fall. One figure was a bit higher than the other, his dark-haired head turned down to his companion, wincing from a raindrop hitting his scalp. His feet held securely to the cliff’s stones; his hands severely grasped two points on each side of his head as if he was able to steer the cliff with his grip. The stones under his exposed hands dug into his palms like wooden splinters. The storm clouds had appeared out of nowhere, though did nothing to cool the already boiling rocks below. It was like the clouds were taunting the two climbers as they made their way slowly up the crag. The bottom climber struggled with finding a solid point to apply his weight; his blinding, white-blonde hair blown into his face by the abrupt wind. Sweat and rain mixed together on his forehead, forming a cooling stream down his eyes, yet also obstructing his vision. The smell of ash, sweat, and dirt kept his nostrils in a constant scrunched up state. His partner, who seemed quite nimble, kept looking back down, making sure the other did not slip. 

“Stay close to me,” the nimble man said, his soft-spoken voice booming off the rocks. His voice was hoarse but still quite pleasant, as if lack of hydration did not obscure the fruitiness of his tone. It was comforting, like a father reassuring his child of a safe journey. Of course, the blonde was more concerned with his shaking arms than being able to follow the path of his more agile counterpart. While the dark-haired man had the strength to lift himself up fairly easily, the blonde had barely enough muscle to reach up to the next stone, let alone put all his weight onto it. After a while, both were able to reach a ledge halfway up the cliff for a rest. Much to the nimble man’s surprise, the blonde had barely slipped at all. But, with most of their energy depleted, the second half of the climb would certainly be more treacherous. Plus, the fact that they were even higher off the ground made their potential fall not only fatal, but cataclysmic. A plunge from that height and countless rocks would jog loose from both the impact and the echo of its sound. 

The short bout of drizzle ended, replaced by more ominous storm clouds that seemed to darken the higher they got. It was surely becoming night, though neither of them could see the sun’s position from their vantage point. The slope they rested on was the only way they could find that made it fully up the mountain. Everywhere else, there was either the remains of a rock slide, even steeper cliffs, or the rocks were just sharper. So here they were, climbing the sheer cliff of a mountain that was definitely not safe but, perhaps, a slower death than the other possibilities. The nimble man had been searching for someone, or something, in the night. It had called them both to the cliff, but the only way to get to it was to climb. 

After catching his breath and resting his screaming limbs for a few minutes, the blonde watched as the nimble man stood up, eyeing the rest of the cliff. The dark-haired man nodded, as if reassuring himself of the course, and jumped up to grasp a secure-looking rock. He began to climb, and the blonde silently followed. The sky lit up as lightning struck somewhere to their right. Thunder crashed so loudly that the cliff shook with its sound. It began to drizzle, but the drizzle quickly turned into rain and then to a downpour. The climbers’ grips became much more slippery, though the water finally allowed the stones to cool, and steam rose from any spot where a raindrop fell. It took what felt like forever, but the dark-haired man finally reached the top of the cliff, his entire body soaked from the deluge of water. The rain obstructed his ability to see more than an arm’s length away. He wanted to help his fellow climber, but he could not do much while blinded by water. 

The blonde’s eyes were squeezed shut against the stream engulfing his face as he gingerly felt his way higher up the cliff. He closed his eyes against the exhaustion, and when he opened them again, he was in the ocean. His arms and legs wailed, not from climbing, but from violently attempting to tread water. The remains of a boat floated around him, waves lapping the broken shards of wood. The blonde gasped for breath, but every inhale brought water in with it. He tilted his head down to see how far above the ocean floor he was. The sea was dark, however, and he could not see the bottom or anything else below the surface. The bright, twinkling stars reflected all around him as if the sea was just an expansion of the endless night sky above. He tried to swim towards a bit of wood that floated close by, but his arms felt weighted down and his legs could barely kick. 

“Are you alright? I’m coming, don’t worry!” 

The blonde’s head snapped around until he spotted a shoreline in the distance where a figure stood and waved vigorously to him. He tried to wave back, but his arms clenched the board tightly, refusing to let go of the lifeline. A sound behind him warned of a coming wave and he turned just in time to get muffled by it. For a few moments, he was pummeled by an onslaught of fatal liquid, his lungs protesting against the pressure. After the wave passed, he gasped for air; his face freshly cleansed by the ocean’s spray. The blonde turned back to the shore where the dark-haired man had begun wading towards him, his arms showcasing the strength it took to push himself out into the sea. Another wave overtook the blonde, this one even worse than the last. He could barely keep his head above the water afterwards. His breathing became shallow and panicked as his limbs grew numb. The physical exertion had finally taken its toll. He floated on his back, his face the only thing he could keep above the lethal height of the emptiness below him. He closed his eyes, listening to the crashing of the waves around him. 

The nimble man knelt on the side of the cliff, squinting his eyes against the constant flow of water cascading down his face. He leaned over, just in time to see a hand reach up and grasp a stone. Suddenly, the rock slid from the cliff’s wall and the hand, still grasping it, fell with it. 

A wave that seemed to reach the meeting point of the sky and its aquatic reflection overtook the blonde and swallowed him whole. The lights from the stars went dim as the numbness of his limbs quickly spread to the rest of his body. He sank lower and lower to the ocean’s floor; his eyes opened to the horror of watching himself drown. He wanted to try and swim up, but his body would not allow it. It had given up. Knowing this was the end, the blonde closed his eyes and let the sea consume him. That is, until he heard a splash from above. 

The dark-haired man quickly stretched his hand back over the cliff and grabbed the wrist of the other climber. Fingers trembled against his arm as he hoisted his shivering compatriot towards him, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Once both were safely on the top of the cliff, the rain let up, as if it had been waiting for them to finish their feat so it could reward their hard work. They breathed heavily, both from exhaustion and from relief. That stone had looked so secure, but its false sense of security almost led to a horrible, untimely end. The blonde nodded at his rescuer, a silent “thank you” exchanged in between gasps of breath. He lay there as sharp rocks bore into his back. He gratefully let the fresh, sweet air of the dry clifftop enter his lungs. The air was sticky, however, revealing the aftermath of the thick rain that had pummeled them as they trekked up the mountain. The dark storm clouds now dispersed to reveal the clear night sky, sprinkled with millions of stars. 

The blonde dared to look over the precipice as he tried to regain his sea legs. The bottom of the cliff was nearly invisible from their height, though the crevice that had once held the stone that made the blonde fall was shroud in deep shadow as if it knew how nearly fatal its resident had been. The once putrid air was washed away by a crisp draft from the mountain. The lingering humidity was the only factor that remained in proving their harrowing feat. The smell of sulfur was replaced with the smell of wood and something more distinct. The scent was sweet, almost too sweet. The delicious aroma of freshly baked cookies and warm hot chocolate wafted its way towards them as if beckoning them further into the mountain. 

“Wesley.” A voice called, bouncing around in his head. “Wes, you need to get up. Please.” 

Wesley opened his eyes, his clothes soaked and his body shivering. He looked up at the face of his father, whose dark hair was plastered to his forehead; his eyes filled with concern. Harlan wiped Wesley’s hair away from his face in relief, a gold band on his finger twinkling against the starlight. Wesley coughed as he tried to breath, water expelling itself from his lungs. He could feel the coarse sand under his body as seashells pushed into his back like sharp rocks on a mountain. The sky was a dark blue, its endless array of sparkling lights shining on the glassy water underneath. Towards the moon, the remains of a small ship sank, half of its hull hidden underneath the blanket of water. Somewhere over there, Wesley knew that jagged rocks pointed up from the depths like treacherous stalagmites in an underwater cave. The sharp points of those rocks had been covered by the thick waves that had caused them to crash. Wesley’s father had tried to steer the boat away, but the storm pushed them into the rocks, blinding their vision and making it impossible for them to see each other until it had passed. 

“Papa?” Wesley asked, his young voice frail and frightened. “Where are we?” 

--- 

On the other side of the island, a woman stood; her hands wrapped around the rails in front of her. The white, painted lighthouse where she was perched shot its light onto the dark waters ahead. The beam searched for any boats that happened to wander into its path. The woman spun a thin, gold band on her finger, anxiously watching for the shadow of a boat to hit the light meant to guide it. She stayed there, all through the night, barely giving herself a second to blink. On the other side of the lighthouse was a tall cliffside with a house perched on the flat top of its precipice. The abode glowed in a soft light as the sweet smell of chocolate slowly died away into the hopelessness of twilight. A table was set for three in the kitchen with rich mugs of hot chocolate and scrumptious cookies set on the counter for dessert. The food chilled as the night grew colder and the candles dimmed as the wind carried the damp sea breeze through the opened windows. But the lighthouse shone on without a flicker. The bright light of hope peered into the darkness, waiting, and watching for any kind of life in the fathoms below.

The Monster in the Shadows

Humans are adaptive and intelligent creatures; it is these aspects that allow them to survive. Not only do they survive, but they can even be considered the most dangerous creature in existence of the mortal realm. 

I once met one; A human. She called herself Cynthia. I had, of course, been taught never to reveal myself for fear of humans’ caution and cleverness. They would not risk my claws and fangs. 

I first noticed Cynthia while I lay in the shadows of a court bench. While all eyes were upon the raging man in the witness chair, her brown eyes watched me. I had done everything required to evade all human senses, and yet she looked upon me with such intensity. I slipped back into the shadows, into our world. I knew I should report the anomaly, and yet those eyes seemed burned into me– twisting, thrashing into my gut. Curiosity finally won out and I returned to the courtroom, sure she had long since vanished, and yet, in the darkened room now blanketed in shadows, there she sat upon the bench. Brown eyes of mild curiosity. 

I did not like those eyes, I decided, so I rose from the shadows till I towered above her. I gave a cruel, white-fanged smile; reached forward with long black claws, and tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. She did not so much as flinch. I held back the shiver that wished to ripple up my ridge. 

She gave a disinterested grunt, and I longed to crumble back into the pool of shadows. But I could not. I was now, somehow, hers. 

I said nothing to no one of this encounter, this unsettlement. When she called, I felt myself drawn out of the shadows. I grew accustomed to Cynthia’s expressionless, demanding self. She labeled me her friend; and I convinced myself to ignore the tremors of fear each time she called. 

The curse was broken one night, and it was a night and a day I shall never forget. I rose from the shadows as I always had. We were in a living room. A kind young man sat beside Cynthia upon an old couch. He was smiling with such love for Cynthia. Upon noticing my presence, his eyes grew fearful and while his kind green eyes were fixated on me, Cynthia pulled forth a knife, and plunged it into his chest.  

For the first time, I saw Cynthia give a genuine smile as she stabbed the helpless young man again and again. I heard, for the first time, her laugh of pure glee as she slit the young man’s throat and even as the boy’s green eyes grew dull, she continued to slash, rip, and stab. Her laughter sickened me. I crouched in the corner, folding my ears inwards in an attempt to block the squelch of blood as blade tore apart skin and flesh. Whimpering, my red eyes staring at the dull green ones that had pleaded for my help in their final moments. 

Finally, Cynthia tossed aside the knife, it skittered close to where I shook. She wrapped herself around the dead boy, giggling like some lovesick schoolgirl as she cuddled into the drying blood and fell asleep. I could not leave, could not stop the tremors, the flinching at every twitch her sleeping form made. It felt an eternity before the sun filtered through the window and I fell into our world of shadows as it blessed me with its light. 

When Cynthia next called, I trembled and curled in on myself. My breathing grew ragged, and I clung to the shadows. Every call threatened to dislodge me, but I held fast until something snapped. Her calls no longer pulled me from the shadows. 

I still hear her calls and, each time, I become sick with the memory of the monster, of a woman who had adapted and embraced pain, falling so deeply in love with it. 

The Sibling Reenactment

And there he stood… saying nothing

The messy carver reflecting the misty moonglow

Dark sockets of pure evil penetrate her innocent, young soul

She hawks out her metallic-rich wine in disgust

The messy carver reflecting the misty moonglow

Doors tremble from the earthquake of fists

She hawks out her metallic-rich wine in disgust

Little birdy calls out for her savior

Doors tremble from the earthquake of fists

Fluffy, full, fuzzy hair wisps against his stiff, sturdy, navy-blue jumpsuit

Little birdy calls out for her savior

His hand extending to gain his possession

Fluffy, full, fuzzy hair wisps against his stiff, sturdy, navy-blue jumpsuit

Crunchy brown leaves cutting at her soft skin

His hand extending to gain his possession

Her voice, what remains, croaks in agony, adrenaline and pain

Crunchy brown leaves cutting at her soft skin

Dark sockets of pure evil penetrate her innocent, young soul

Her voice, what remains, croaks in agony, adrenaline & pain

And there he stood...saying nothing

Undying

The never-ending cycle of life and death; a constant loop no one can escape. 

Many believe immortality is a blessing but, in reality, it is a curse. 

I have been forced to watch the people I hold dear wither away as I remain.

Year after year, decade after decade, century after century I have begged for death. 

Yet no God will answer my prayer when their same blood flows through my veins. 

I have lost too many friends, too many lovers with beating hearts inside them. 

With each death my soul breaks. 

I tell myself time and time again, I will never fall for another. 

Never again, I said. 

Yet, here I am, back in the human realm living a mortal life. 

The hunger for a normal life burns inside of me, like a hole I cannot fill. 

An everlasting flame I try to smother with every passing day. 

Because after the world ends and everyone is dead, I will still be here, drowning in my sorrows.

Sad Eyes

I’ve been told that I have sad eyes

Though I smile and speak lightly.

They say there is a dim light that will blow out if I let it and allow myself to let go

They say I walk with confidence in a timid way and hold myself carefully that seems unsure

I’ll think about things before I speak but bite my tongue although I live with no regrets.

They say I want all the color and chaos though I am too shy to begin

And that love is there if I let it in.

Somebody told me that I have sad eyes

And to that

I smiled, politely

And walked away

Sinking Ship

There’s a hole in the boat

And we’re both going down

He’s got the life vest

While I’m gonna drown

A hole in the boat

He’s got the plug

He’s just sitting there laughing

And looking all smug

There’s a hole in our boat

With no one around

Everyone’s moved

And they’ve all swam for town

There’s a hole in this boat

I stuck my finger in

But the salt in the water

Eats away at my skin

There’s a hole in my boat

And we’re both going down

He’s got the life vest

While I’m gonna drown

Untitled

Only men who have felt ultimate despair

are capable of feeling ultimate bliss

so answer me this

without truth to fear

does limbo exist?

Through trials and tests

though trauma I detest

who says were the best?

when life is nothing but the best

If life is designed to live

And the bane of life

is living

Why do we hinder the final days?

If heaven is forgiving?

Oceans will forever flow

Trees will forever grow

Stars will forever glow

knowledge is nothing but knowing what we don’t know

Wisdom is truth and truths are absurd

‘Flowers are only flowers’

Is all we need to know

The Mandarin’s Dilemma

for the Mandarin to voluntarily shed its peel

to discard its protective layer

and sit on a plate exposed

it would have to accept that it may be devoured 

hungrily and unceremoniously

would it be too much for the Mandarin to hope 

that if it disrobes 

undoes its pithy corset 

revealing its segments 

they would one by one

pass through a pair of delicately parted lips

perhaps grazing them gently

be lain onto the most appreciative tongue

and swirled and savored until

the thin skin containing its hundreds of juice sacs

bursts open in a flood of ecstasy

why else but for its trepidation

would it attempt to preserve itself 

when the alternative 

is to rot

without having shared its gifts

Tipping Over

That winter long ago, dressing your two-year-old

in a pink snowsuit and purple snow boots, 

you let her go. She tipped over in two minutes

surprising you but you were quick to catch her.

On one frigid, snowy morning, you were

lifting the heavy nozzle to fill your gas tank, 

it snapped back at you trying to tip you over.

This summer afternoon, your dysfunctional 

spine lacked the strength to tilt the bag of rice,

exactly twenty pounds, from the grocery cart 

to the trunk of your car. You were about to tip over.

Then, remember the scene from Kolkata? 

A man was stacking a dozen bricks on the head 

of a frail, kneeling woman. She stood up slowly 

hobbling for hundred yards, to the high-rise 

under construction. Consequences would have been 

dire if she tipped over.

Turning Towards Myself.

I was never taught to love myself

Or the messy parts of my existence.

And so, I scrutinize my flaws under a microscope,

picking myself apart while writhing in resistance.

Until there isn’t much left of

who I really am.

For I am no perfect being.

I am no exception.

I refuse to adhere to a notion of Me

I am only human. Figuring it out along the way.

I am myself, you see.

Not an image or production.

I wrap my tired arms around my cautious being,

holding this body with a loving firmness.

This vessel that has never failed

to stay for my higher purpose.