Haunted

At first I wasn't sure. I thought I hated her and that is why she would sometimes glance at you out of the corner of her eye and see something else instead, dropping whatever fragile dish was in her hand. That is why she would get cold sweats on the nights you made her sleep alone.

But it wasn't true. It was not her fault. She did not speak to God before she was born and ask to be beautiful and carefree and agreeable. She had little choice in her natural near-perfection.

I realized and accepted this the morning she cried in the shower. You weren't there to see it and probably would not have been able to differentiate between the salt and the soft water that wouldn't wash her soap away.

I HATE YOU.

Because it's your fault. Because you had a choice and chose the path containing the least amount of me.

That is why she felt better when you bought the new house two states away. She slept and didn't cry and wasn't afraid.

But you were afraid. You are still afraid. You get chills in the middle of summer when the AC isn't even on. You hear voices when you are alone in your perfect new house. Even after the secret visits from the psychics and the ministers, you find yourself waking from fitful slumbers with my name on your lips.

Since I can't rest, I won't let you rest. No matter how far away you move, or try to bury the truth, or shut up the actuality of our past and the potential it once held for our future, I will be there to make sure that you never forget. You can't hide from what you've done to me and there's no point in trying to run away like I tried to run away with my headlights off, foot on the pedal like a dead weight, no wish-wash wish-wash of the windshield wipers. Just salt and rain. And darkness.

As you slip into the closet and pull out that slip of newspaper (there's my name! and the address of the place you didn't go) wondering if I'm really breathing against your neck, whispering in your ear like I used to do...I am sure.

I can't rest and neither will you until you utter my name. Until you apologize for not loving me.

Night of the Living Dead

I wrote this poem in college and it was one of my few attempts at form poetry that I actually liked. Unfortunately, only one person seemed to ever notice that this wasn't a true villanelle, not only because of the slightly modified "repeated" lines, but because a villanelle requires an additional stanza that should appear before the final one in this poem. I eventually added this missing stanza but I was never able to make it really work...so I've decided to leave the poem in its original, incorrect format.

"Night of the Living Dead: a broken villanelle"

Smith Sound Snippet

The short story, "Mother" is actually a bit of a postlogue to a longer work-in-progress entitled "Smith." Below is a recorded snippet from the longer work, to add just a smidge more context.

Mother

How exactly do you mourn a daughter who isn't really dead?

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My mother taught me the importance of freedom, explained how crucial it was to my inner survival that I not resist the urge to run free and experience the wonders of this world. When I was ten I flew from our home in the wild woods of Florida all the way to the southern most tip of Texas. I spent two weeks avoiding coyotes with a herd of javelinas.

When I came home, my mother just smiled and offered me a glass of milk before asking, “No humans?”

“Ninguos humanos,” I responded.

“Mi niña bonita,” she said in her southern accent.

Nina never took long trips. She'd go away for a couple of days, usually hunting in the area...sometimes just hanging around with Smith.

How exactly do you convince your daughter that the love her life might just be a tether?

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When I heard the news about Smith's father, I wasn't surprised that Nina didn't show up for a couple of days. Best case, she was comforting Smith. Worst case she was hunting the animal that killed him. I wasn't afraid.

It wasn't until the town council had decided to create a hunting party to go search out and kill whatever had done this, that the first seeds of doubt entered into my mind. I had never before in her life questioned her judgement. And so I waited. Even after the men and women were gathered with their shotguns at the edge of town. A couple of them carried tranquilizers, just in case. Most of them were there for the kill.

But still I waited.

I poured a glass of milk and sat it on the table. I watched condensation form and drip down the sides. I felt it go from cool to warm. I could smell it changing. Still. I waited for her to appear.

I can sit here and make a list of the things that prevented me from walking or running or flying or crawling out of that fucking door but then I'd have to add all of those factors together and formulate the conclusion, which is all that really matters. The fact of the matter is that I was sitting at my kitchen table doing absolutely nothing while they went out and hunted my daughter. And I knew it. I bloody well knew it.

A fly landed in the milk finally waking me from my dangerous delusion. The next moment I was leaning over the glass and the fly was falling down my throat while some of the milk dripped from my beak. The sun was going down. I had to save my baby girl.

I let out a cry and drifted out of the window.

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The worst part of it all is that I went right to her. The hunters were spread out but still pretty clustered together and I knew she would be able to avoid them easily. These people were experts but they were behaving brashly, with their lanterns and dogs crashing wildly through the woods.

I saw her, naked as the day I bore her, shivering as Smith aimed his gun for her chest. Even from my vantage point, I could see that his hand was steady. She was getting blurry around the edges, losing her shape. Too much was happening!! I was there in seconds but still I saw so much...

The sound of his gun interrupted my dive. I swerved and crash landed to his side. In a split second I was on all fours, fur raised, fangs bared...ready to rip through his chest and sink my teeth into his heart. But before I could spring, he looked at me. Defeated.

I have done an immeasurable amount of hunting in my lifetime and seen many looks of defeat. I've had wolves turn their bellies to me while eying me with awe and respect. I've had elephants flare their eyes and raise their trunks while looking at me with utter despair. Smith had nothing left in him. No fear, no hope. Everything inside of him was already dead. He knew who I was and what I was going to do but he did not care one way or the other. He dropped his gun.

Still growling I glanced over to where Nina's body fell. Or would have fallen.

It wasn't there.

Smith began to walk away. I barked a warning at him and he stopped for a moment before proceeding again. I wanted to destroy him but I had to find Nina.

I sniffed around and tried to pick up her scent...but there was nothing there. I crawled along the ground, flew through the air searching for any hint of anything that might have been her. The dispersed. The moon rose high and then dimmed as the sun began to rise again. I went home.

And I waited.

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I hid in the walls of our house, not wanting to deal with the gossip, the questions, the backlash and confusion. I just wanted my daughter to come home.

After around a week I went back to the woods and searched for clues, carcasses. There was nothing. And for a moment, a brilliantly beautiful moment, I thought that maybe she had finally set herself free, had finally understood the infinite potential of the world outside of this pocket we lived in.

I was back where it all happened and I noticed a sapling. I still don't know or understand how I knew. Why it caught my attention. I still don't know that I know but every fiber of my being tells me that my baby did something that neither I nor my mother would have ever considered possible or even worth attempting. I've tried to communicate. I've crawled along the stalk, dug near the roots but can't find any way to break through.

So I wait.