Night came. I fought.
No longer fight.
Close my eyes.
Complete the dark.
11/21/10
11/3/10
Building Blocks
The dishes stay stacked (like Richter 10 buildings) on the counter
in both sides of the sink My eyes count the hour
in both sides of the sink My eyes count the hour
hand by hand into the rack (the difficulty of shaping)
empty and full at every moment just one (pulled out of place implodes) could be wasted
for . . .
--I must ask myself over and over
What am I doing here--
What am I doing here--
pen to hit the paper drop a word shatter a letter
(rupture) (toppling) (rubble)
(rupture) (toppling) (rubble)
--One letter, just one letter Dear Jesus
Please rescue me
find the time to take away the cancer--
find the time to take away the cancer--
This is a waste
repeating a task that repeats before I’ve finished
Anaphora
at its best
10/30/10
Sketch Sixteen
The Hall
In the hall of Lutheran Hospital, the hall that connects the third floor of the Orthopedics Hospital to the regular part of the hospital are windows on each side--large windows that a car can go through, windows that start two feet from the floor and stop two feet from the ceiling, windows that aren't divided by much except about every three to five, where a piece of wall jets out. The windows are situated much like window seats without a cushions. In this hall are three offices and a small boutique center, which is no longer in business. The offices and the empty boutique divide up one side of the hall, making a center nook, the place where I sleep in the evening. This is how the three offices and the empty boutique are arranged: The empty boutique and one office is placed closes to the regular hospital, the office down the hall. Some 30 feet is left for chairs and tables, the nook I mentioned, before the next two offices appear. After those offices, another open space where the windowed-wall cuts into the doors that lead to the Orthopedics Hospital. The offices, upon inspection one day, when noticing a door open, has the very same large windows as the hallway. Here, in the nook, a pocket of sorts, is my bedroom by night. The chairs and couches in this part of the hall are different from those in the other cubby hole area and the waiting are for ICUe, except for the chairs used around the tables. (I must stop this observation briefly to tell you about one conversation I can hear, one of many that becomes part of this hallway: much grief finds its way to this hall. An older gentleman with a midlife women pass me to stand in front of the empty boutique. She begins to cry, he pats her back, in a hug I suspect, but I can hear the light patting; whispers and whimpers persist. There is much of this here; and still there is laughter as families meet, coming to know grief, often over an older person, not the young--the young are few here.)
Back to those windows; they intrigue me. The large windows allow vision to the construction of the main hospital, a fifth floor addition. Sometimes I imagine the crane not functioning correctly, the items upon its lift smashing through the hall. Here, it is quieter, even during the day, less traffic, even when the carts come barreling through with equipment and people walking to and from each hospital. The waiting room is always full, the elevator always busy.
As I attempt to finish this sketch, I am not in the hallway. I cannot honestly recall the wall colors. I can see the pattern in the chairs: the green and green blue colors. As vivid as I think the pattern is in my mind, as often as I have it, I'm without words to describe it because it is not in front of me. At a glance, from memory, a person can assume it is camouflage, which I say it is, but the pattern . . . I must see it, is not truly leaves and twigs--or is it. I've yet to determine if there is a genuine pattern with all the times I have stared at it. (Again grief can be heard as I sit alone in the hallway, sit on one of the couches that make up my makeshift bed late at night; a man talking to a brother, a sister, I do not know who, but someone who comes across as family by the way he speaks. His mother has been sent her from St. Joe. The situation is not good. She has been made more ill by the actions taken at St. Joe. His anger doesn't override his grief, but his voice speaks the pain of negligence, of lawsuit. The many different issues that bring us here.)
I have made time to write while in the hallway. My makeshift bed all tore down, I sit looking about me. The walls are a dirty cream, not quite a tan with a peach tint. Those chairs--let me get to them in a moment. The floor is carpeted: green mainly, a dark green, probably a hunter green with a cream and barn red in a splattered patterns highlighting the greens. This carpet comes in a darker type pattern as well, which creates a square outline in some areas of the hall--well this one is rectangle. Now for the chairs and couches: a person can witness leaves and twigs, but the lay out of the pattern is very deceptive because squares come in--some squares have tattered edges. There are a few vines with leaves at the tips, but don't stand out. The colors of this pattern also throws a person off: slate gray, off-dirty white, three to four tones of green with a blue hint in them. The couch pattern I've stared at mostly develops its own character, an entity, as if it shifts shapes, moves as if uncomfortable with its being: an eye within a jaw, the jaw jetting out sharply like that of a broken skull where the jaw protrudes. This same pattern repeats, but because of its position on this couch it stands alone.
There are two coffee tables in here; all the tables are alike among the three areas. The top is bordered by light colored wood, the same wood used for the legs (and beneath most likely). It feels like polished compressed wood. The top itself might be formica, a tan, brown mixture of colors in a splattered-marbled pattern.
Oh, those chairs have wood along the back and the cushions are divided by the same wood, making the couches look like individual seats, three side by side. The couches and chairs are wood framed benches of sort.
On one wall hangs a TV--LG; a light switch at the edge of this wall (this is the wall against the centered offices). Across from it, on the other wall, hangs a picture. Until now, I have not noticed it, I have not paid attention to it, nor looked at it.
I will not be finishing this sketch unless my son is placed back into ICU. He has moved to the regular part of the hospital, meaning he is better. There is much more to sketch.
In the hall of Lutheran Hospital, the hall that connects the third floor of the Orthopedics Hospital to the regular part of the hospital are windows on each side--large windows that a car can go through, windows that start two feet from the floor and stop two feet from the ceiling, windows that aren't divided by much except about every three to five, where a piece of wall jets out. The windows are situated much like window seats without a cushions. In this hall are three offices and a small boutique center, which is no longer in business. The offices and the empty boutique divide up one side of the hall, making a center nook, the place where I sleep in the evening. This is how the three offices and the empty boutique are arranged: The empty boutique and one office is placed closes to the regular hospital, the office down the hall. Some 30 feet is left for chairs and tables, the nook I mentioned, before the next two offices appear. After those offices, another open space where the windowed-wall cuts into the doors that lead to the Orthopedics Hospital. The offices, upon inspection one day, when noticing a door open, has the very same large windows as the hallway. Here, in the nook, a pocket of sorts, is my bedroom by night. The chairs and couches in this part of the hall are different from those in the other cubby hole area and the waiting are for ICUe, except for the chairs used around the tables. (I must stop this observation briefly to tell you about one conversation I can hear, one of many that becomes part of this hallway: much grief finds its way to this hall. An older gentleman with a midlife women pass me to stand in front of the empty boutique. She begins to cry, he pats her back, in a hug I suspect, but I can hear the light patting; whispers and whimpers persist. There is much of this here; and still there is laughter as families meet, coming to know grief, often over an older person, not the young--the young are few here.)
Back to those windows; they intrigue me. The large windows allow vision to the construction of the main hospital, a fifth floor addition. Sometimes I imagine the crane not functioning correctly, the items upon its lift smashing through the hall. Here, it is quieter, even during the day, less traffic, even when the carts come barreling through with equipment and people walking to and from each hospital. The waiting room is always full, the elevator always busy.
As I attempt to finish this sketch, I am not in the hallway. I cannot honestly recall the wall colors. I can see the pattern in the chairs: the green and green blue colors. As vivid as I think the pattern is in my mind, as often as I have it, I'm without words to describe it because it is not in front of me. At a glance, from memory, a person can assume it is camouflage, which I say it is, but the pattern . . . I must see it, is not truly leaves and twigs--or is it. I've yet to determine if there is a genuine pattern with all the times I have stared at it. (Again grief can be heard as I sit alone in the hallway, sit on one of the couches that make up my makeshift bed late at night; a man talking to a brother, a sister, I do not know who, but someone who comes across as family by the way he speaks. His mother has been sent her from St. Joe. The situation is not good. She has been made more ill by the actions taken at St. Joe. His anger doesn't override his grief, but his voice speaks the pain of negligence, of lawsuit. The many different issues that bring us here.)
I have made time to write while in the hallway. My makeshift bed all tore down, I sit looking about me. The walls are a dirty cream, not quite a tan with a peach tint. Those chairs--let me get to them in a moment. The floor is carpeted: green mainly, a dark green, probably a hunter green with a cream and barn red in a splattered patterns highlighting the greens. This carpet comes in a darker type pattern as well, which creates a square outline in some areas of the hall--well this one is rectangle. Now for the chairs and couches: a person can witness leaves and twigs, but the lay out of the pattern is very deceptive because squares come in--some squares have tattered edges. There are a few vines with leaves at the tips, but don't stand out. The colors of this pattern also throws a person off: slate gray, off-dirty white, three to four tones of green with a blue hint in them. The couch pattern I've stared at mostly develops its own character, an entity, as if it shifts shapes, moves as if uncomfortable with its being: an eye within a jaw, the jaw jetting out sharply like that of a broken skull where the jaw protrudes. This same pattern repeats, but because of its position on this couch it stands alone.
There are two coffee tables in here; all the tables are alike among the three areas. The top is bordered by light colored wood, the same wood used for the legs (and beneath most likely). It feels like polished compressed wood. The top itself might be formica, a tan, brown mixture of colors in a splattered-marbled pattern.
Oh, those chairs have wood along the back and the cushions are divided by the same wood, making the couches look like individual seats, three side by side. The couches and chairs are wood framed benches of sort.
On one wall hangs a TV--LG; a light switch at the edge of this wall (this is the wall against the centered offices). Across from it, on the other wall, hangs a picture. Until now, I have not noticed it, I have not paid attention to it, nor looked at it.
I will not be finishing this sketch unless my son is placed back into ICU. He has moved to the regular part of the hospital, meaning he is better. There is much more to sketch.
9/25/10
The Moon of Man
The moon full on the night of equinox, clouds shadowing her fullness. The night of the wolf exists, I think to myself. The perfect moon, the moon to play hide 'n' seek, the moon to kiss under, to bite under, to tease the one you love. I feel the pull upon my heart and wonder who is my wolf tonight, will she allow me to have a wolf tonight. The clouds heighten the craters, which are just visible to the human eye. These clouds make the moon look rugged, like a man gone unshaven for a day or two. A little ruggedness isn't bad, in fact, some intimidation is needed at times, but not against the love, against those who would take the love. The moon loves Earth, loves man, without man, she would lose hope of being, her little control a delight of life. She gives the sign when birth is to come, when conception is possible; she guides the heart like no other at night, especially in her fullness. There are times, man should fear her, a woman should fear her, when all of Earth should fear her. She has more control then we want to believe. Time has not made her more than what she is, it is because she is and man cannot deny her. The equinox has only heightened this time, this night, emotion swelling without a place to let it go, without a source to give it to. She will not give me my wolf, not tonight, she knows it is not time.
9/20/10
A sketch
A third day of writing a sketch. I have no idea what to write. I know this can be done. I will put into practice what I tell my students for their freewrite journals: “Write anything, don’t care what it is, write, even if it is the Goober for two lines, just write.” So, here I am writing. I thought about a sketch of me, and then sketching out a grandchild, but it hasn’t inspired me. Well, a sketch of the tattoo that is on the mythical me for my upcoming story. Yes, that shall be done.
She stands in a candlelit dance studio, lightening dancing through the sky. She is only in her skin colored, low-heeled dance shoes. The butterfly wings were completed but two hours ago, butterfly wings that have taken a little more than a year to complete. She has made herself madam butterfly. The wings begin at her ankles: the curl of the wing wraps around the ankle bone and rolls to the back of the leg, flaring slowly out with small jagged, caressing, edges. Those edges smoothly jet to the sides, but never completely around the leg, the outline of the design just visible to a person who may stand directly in front of her. At the back of the knee, the wing widens more, little do the jagged edges appear as the wing caresses into the curve of her inner and outer thigh, but never reaching the front of the leg. Upon reaching the buttocks, the division of the wings begin to meet between the each individual cheek, the coloring of the wings are a marbled-lining of deep blue hinted with silver, a light turquoise, and the deep blue of a lavender flower to this point. The colors become more defined upon the cheeks of the buttocks, as well as blending into each other more precisely into a pattern of chaos, of memorizing tranquility. Only if she leans over can a person witness the separation of the wings. At the bottom of the buttocks the wing wraps toward the front as it does from the top of the buttocks, taking in the entire hip, narrowing as the lower wing travels to just below the navel. The colors once again take on the pattern of marbling. The wing loops below the navel into the opposite lower wing, an intricate gathering that makes a low lined “V.” The upper wing begins above the navel.
Just as the lower wings connect, the upper do as well, the “V” turned opening down. A diamond, laying on its side, encases the navel. Each wing pulls back in its elegant, intricate entanglement. Just a small area of the lower wing is hidden as the upper wing begins to widen. The top of the wing reaches the first two lower ribs before wrapping around the side to the back. The colors continue as they did before and after the buttocks, reaching around to the back, slowly edging up the shoulder, becoming jagged in areas as parts dart out, but not too far, never reaching around to the front again, the pattern hovering at the very edge of where arms lay at rest along the side. Not quite under the arm, heading towards the shoulders, the wing begins to narrow, the division of the wings in the center of the back visible again about three-fourths up from the waist. From this division a wing begins its movement up and over the shoulder—covering the curve of the shoulder and just hugging the neckline—where a wing plunges inward, slightly, narrowing greatly, until an inch from the areola to go around the darkened flesh but never entering the teat area. The wing ends with a small balled-hoop, just as the wings had connected above and below the navel.
She stands in a candlelit dance studio, lightening dancing through the sky. She is only in her skin colored, low-heeled dance shoes. The butterfly wings were completed but two hours ago, butterfly wings that have taken a little more than a year to complete. She has made herself madam butterfly. The wings begin at her ankles: the curl of the wing wraps around the ankle bone and rolls to the back of the leg, flaring slowly out with small jagged, caressing, edges. Those edges smoothly jet to the sides, but never completely around the leg, the outline of the design just visible to a person who may stand directly in front of her. At the back of the knee, the wing widens more, little do the jagged edges appear as the wing caresses into the curve of her inner and outer thigh, but never reaching the front of the leg. Upon reaching the buttocks, the division of the wings begin to meet between the each individual cheek, the coloring of the wings are a marbled-lining of deep blue hinted with silver, a light turquoise, and the deep blue of a lavender flower to this point. The colors become more defined upon the cheeks of the buttocks, as well as blending into each other more precisely into a pattern of chaos, of memorizing tranquility. Only if she leans over can a person witness the separation of the wings. At the bottom of the buttocks the wing wraps toward the front as it does from the top of the buttocks, taking in the entire hip, narrowing as the lower wing travels to just below the navel. The colors once again take on the pattern of marbling. The wing loops below the navel into the opposite lower wing, an intricate gathering that makes a low lined “V.” The upper wing begins above the navel.
Just as the lower wings connect, the upper do as well, the “V” turned opening down. A diamond, laying on its side, encases the navel. Each wing pulls back in its elegant, intricate entanglement. Just a small area of the lower wing is hidden as the upper wing begins to widen. The top of the wing reaches the first two lower ribs before wrapping around the side to the back. The colors continue as they did before and after the buttocks, reaching around to the back, slowly edging up the shoulder, becoming jagged in areas as parts dart out, but not too far, never reaching around to the front again, the pattern hovering at the very edge of where arms lay at rest along the side. Not quite under the arm, heading towards the shoulders, the wing begins to narrow, the division of the wings in the center of the back visible again about three-fourths up from the waist. From this division a wing begins its movement up and over the shoulder—covering the curve of the shoulder and just hugging the neckline—where a wing plunges inward, slightly, narrowing greatly, until an inch from the areola to go around the darkened flesh but never entering the teat area. The wing ends with a small balled-hoop, just as the wings had connected above and below the navel.
9/11/10
Two Stones
1.a
Evening fails to end the day.
Starlight and moonlight stand over me.
In the church, an urn stares at forty people.
The last bee flutters over a flower.
In the cemetery, a casket blindly looks at the tent ceiling.
I can only mix these two days into a moment
when the urn resides within the casket. At each moment
the preacher says, “. . . bow our heads,”
2.a and only the motion happens.
I’m looking at the flowers and wandering with my feet
the intention of this day when he says,
“I do,” and I follow. The preacher gives his blessing,
collects his twenty dollars, and two signatures
record the record of the gathering, a gathering
which could come
1.b from the sorrowfulness. It is only fitting to bury
ashes with the embalmed.
I can’t help remembering words: “his huge body
splayed over a Lazy Boy; an Arby’s bag below
his left hand on the floor; the television
sounding “Bad Boys” as the coroner
pronounced him dead.” The last time I saw him
2.b he limped with a moderate gut and a cane. His disability
locking his mind up into believing
his body couldn’t do, wouldn’t do: too much pain
to deal with; pills lined in the clear
plastic case labeled with days of the week wasted
on swallowing
1.c
pounds of meat for the five years I didn’t see him.
He could have been anything. A voice troubles me
as I hear the speech like a poem:
“He gave whatever he had to a hand out:
a pauper himself and a spender when he saw a want.”
I never knew this man. Maybe it was there,
2.c not in my little girl eyes of 31 years ago when
he took me to be his bride, 32 years ago when I allowed
him to take me, to take me
3.d 40 years ago for coffee to Sambo’s, where some big-busted
waitress would laugh and giggle, and he would point out,
“She’s my niece.” I was bait. The seal slides down
as I stand at a distance with my toes facing another stone.
Evening fails to end the day.
Starlight and moonlight stand over me.
In the church, an urn stares at forty people.
The last bee flutters over a flower.
In the cemetery, a casket blindly looks at the tent ceiling.
I can only mix these two days into a moment
when the urn resides within the casket. At each moment
the preacher says, “. . . bow our heads,”
2.a and only the motion happens.
I’m looking at the flowers and wandering with my feet
the intention of this day when he says,
“I do,” and I follow. The preacher gives his blessing,
collects his twenty dollars, and two signatures
record the record of the gathering, a gathering
which could come
1.b from the sorrowfulness. It is only fitting to bury
ashes with the embalmed.
I can’t help remembering words: “his huge body
splayed over a Lazy Boy; an Arby’s bag below
his left hand on the floor; the television
sounding “Bad Boys” as the coroner
pronounced him dead.” The last time I saw him
2.b he limped with a moderate gut and a cane. His disability
locking his mind up into believing
his body couldn’t do, wouldn’t do: too much pain
to deal with; pills lined in the clear
plastic case labeled with days of the week wasted
on swallowing
1.c
pounds of meat for the five years I didn’t see him.
He could have been anything. A voice troubles me
as I hear the speech like a poem:
“He gave whatever he had to a hand out:
a pauper himself and a spender when he saw a want.”
I never knew this man. Maybe it was there,
2.c not in my little girl eyes of 31 years ago when
he took me to be his bride, 32 years ago when I allowed
him to take me, to take me
3.d 40 years ago for coffee to Sambo’s, where some big-busted
waitress would laugh and giggle, and he would point out,
“She’s my niece.” I was bait. The seal slides down
as I stand at a distance with my toes facing another stone.
7/3/10
Kingdom of Jackels: True Blood
This is only chapter one. Please let me know if chapter one catches you enough to want more.
Note: Known calendar for Earth has been changed to 13 months in a year, the last month now called Augmon.
Chapter One
Augmon, 21, 3000
Their clothes dirty and ragged, along with their bodies, materialized upon the rings. Voices echoed down the lonely hallway to lightly touch the portal circles in the Traveling Room as they materialized, the lights dimming with a quick pulse as the energy surged to bring two bodies into the room from another day. Daria and Roselina quickly down the hall to a changing room where beautiful gowns awaited them for the Our Messiah. In this hallway, physical bodies were not present for the holiday, just the voices that echoed down the lonely hallway from the Great Hall. All had been planned well. They were to arrive back for the festivities and be escorted in as honored guests by the King. Daria had not wanted to come in noticed, but her King’s wishes would be met. The cold brick walls cried for the cheer of its sire, which had not taken a wife, or appeared to be interested in taking one. Daria’s spouse had died three years ago, to this date, rescuing the Kin gout of the claws of a Duruabé assassin. She struggled to have strength; the mission she and Roselina Se’ven had returned from was conclusive of her lack of strength to help others—due to fear. She failed. She sighed, her breath hot upon her chest.The Duruabe were continuous thorns fro the people of Germaine, always attempting to put Germainians under its vicious palm of slavery. Duruabians saw Germainians’ free thinking as a device of evil. Images of lives tumbling over the railing of the air balloon swelled in her eyes as the anger rose: who is evil? She sighed heavily, unaware where she walked, what she did, how others cleaned her and helped her dress for her presentation.
A brief moment after the sigh, Daria let loose her anger, “Arrrrrrgh,” slapping away the hands that fidgeted with her appearance.
Roselina came about as Daria calmed, “We did our best.”
Teach them to fight to keep themselves alive and free. Don’t do the work for them. The motto of Germaine echoed in Daria’s ears. “Yes,” she whispered, “our best in getting many killed,” she mumbled even lower.
“My brother would have done the same,” Roselina shook her head calmly as she spoke the words closely to Daria’s ear.
Yes, her brother, Princess Roselina Se’ven’s brother, the King. Her heart fell another peg at the thought of him. Stop it Daria; you are a widow forever. Once again, she sighed and bowed, “Forgive me. It isn’t for me to question.”
“You have all rights to question. Would you prefer those people to live in slavery or fight in freedom, as your people did? Has the fire of freedom left you?”
“I. . . . Princess Se’ven, I . . . don’t— I fear—”
“Yes. The only fear you have is in failing, as you believe. . . .” Roselina let the sentence hang. Scolding Daria would not open her to serving more. The experience, Roselina knew, must do the job. Seeing the helpless always led Daria to help, which brought out her leadership. Roselina hoped this fueled the kindling needed. Daria would need it in the next few days.
The small hallway that led from the changing room, opened into the main hallway, which led directly into the Great Hall, where people filled the spaced with laughter, which echoed down the hall, and where people stuffed their laughter with spirits and food. Lady Daria Kitne stood just abreast of the opening, just the other side from where her King stood, the King who awaited to take her hand, along with Roselina’s, where they would be led into the Great Hall. Before the guards reached the archway to announce the presence of the King, Roselina stopped Daria before stepping forward: “You will catch my brother’s eyes, but you must determine where you stand. Your heart cries for our people, but your fear holds you back. Go forward with the, Gar will always be with you. Do not use Gar to keep that which you wish a’bay.” Daria did not reply. She had not fooled Rsoelina, as she hoped all these years. She had not fooled herself either. Quickly, she thought about the words to say to the King, who waited at the entrance of the Great Hall, who now signaled the ladies to come to him, where he would take each of their hands. Yes, she feared, feared greatly. Feared her inability to have joy and serve the people while happy. Fear that her heritage would upset the plans she assumed the King was about to put forth, the plan she was unsure how to answer to. Her head said no. Her heart said yes. Secrets were meant to be exposed. How had she, had Gar, had the Se’ven family keep it silent? Others surely knew? The young ladies placed a hand in one of his curtsied as he kissed Roselina’s knuckles first, then Daria’s.
They stepped into the Great Hall, only to stop just inside the entrance, where Daria believed he would announce . . . something to the crowd, instead King Se’ven took Roselina’s hand to his lips, once again, kissing her knuckles lightly, letting her hand go quickly, then turned to Daria, not touching his lips to Lady Kitne’s knuckles, keeping his eyes lowered, lingering over her fingers, his breath brushing her knuckles, warming them gently. His hand did not release hers, his thumb relentlessly massaging the rises and valleys of her knuckles. A reaction she had no expected; she did not know how to respond, at first wanting to pull away and walk away quickly, and then wanting to lift her hand up and into his chest as a jester to be escorted. She did, however, give a small tug, his show of affection making her feel slightly odd in front of the people. Her reaction was rejected by his firm grip, bringing her closer into him, escorting her as his to the table.
He could not look upon her with the intimacy he felt between them. Her action, or lack of following through on her action, spoke clearly. She did not attempt to fully pull away, nor did she make a reply to indicate that her hand should be left at her side; he could sense the tension and indecision, the fear. Three years he waited for her to mourn—every man that attempted to court her rejected. Her fear had kept her closed off; a fear he sensed dealt with loss, losing all that was precious. This fear held her back, kept her from him. If he could go back and change Gar’s death. . . ; he couldn't, not even if he wanted to. A thought echoed in his ears, If I wanted to, I could, and the Council wouldn’t deny me. He also knew that all the scenarios played out did not, would not, change the predicament of his closest friend’s capture by the Duruabé, which would be the same as death—torture to make him talk, which he would never do. He let go of Daria’s hand as she slowly took her seat.
Daria’s fear of what didn’t happen and what could still happen made for more confusion and rushing emotions that would lead to tears; but she fought the urge to cry, to run, to hide, using the embracing mind-calming technique her grandmother taught her. Breathing deeply, she brought all her questions, her fears, her emotional tension to her tongue, swallowed, repeated, and repeated until she could feel in her deep exhale, deep complete, slow exhales all thoughts of moving her tongue or her feet to calm into nearly nothing; fear was good, fear in control wasn’t—she hadn’t remembered that for three years; Thank You Gran’ma. Every excuse that rose to the surface, ready to be blurted out, ready to make her run the moment King Se’ven introduced his selection was buried far enough to keep her mind focused, for awhile at least.
Food was sitting, already awaiting for their presence, and King Se’ven helped the youngest Kitne, Garth, who came running at the sight of his mother from his big sister, to the table. Terron was good with children, and Garth loved him, as did all her children. She watched him, wanting his eyes to smile on her as they did her children, and yet, hoping that he would not acknowledge her. Master Garth began to laugh as Terron told the story of the ‘Potato Smash,’ a story told by her father, to her at the dinner table as a child, a story shared by families in Tuleth, passed down from. . . . Her smile faded as she recalled where the story came from. Watching the action as it developed into fun play over the dinner table, she realized Terron never sat the example of good manners; strange indeed. Terron, as a King, never lived by standards, only loyalty and what was respectful—of course respect was negotiable. Daria’s smile returned as her youngest enjoyed himself through the storytelling during the boring celebration made for adults. Terron was good to her children; he loved them, just as their father loved them, just as she loved Gar, her memories sinking into the past celebrations given at this exact table. She heard Gar’s voice whispering in her ear, smirking with snorts as he would tell her how he watched her from the hill as she played with the children, undressing her in his mind, pretending he was the person chasing her, telling her his compete fantasy as he was supposedly on watch.
Roselina was leaning across the empty chair that separated her from Daria, attempting to get her attention, repeating, “Daria, get his attention,” until Roselina finally poked her, bringing Daria back to the moment: “Daria, get his attention!”
She stared blankly, briefly. “No,” she calmly replied. She wasn’t sure she should be in love. She wouldn’t instigate anything.
In agitation because the urge of tears that she did not want to be seen, in agitation of the party, in agitation of herself because she was allowing fear to be in control, she waited for Roselina to dance with Dar, her oldest, for (her oldest girl) to get the younger Kitne children involved in the jump dance, enabling her to wonder away quietly. Her chance came as the music picked up upon Terron’s signal, as Terron picked up Garth to dance with him.
In her apartment, tears stayed hidden in her heart, for there was company about, relatives in the apartment—her husband’s family, along with many friends and colleagues, who once considered her such but now sided with . . . others. The day of Our Messiah, people went from apartment to apartment, visiting and sharing the joy of the Life that Saved, the child who brought hope to a hopeless world. There was nowhere to be alone as friends and family came and went. Not everyone went to the Great Hall for the feast, to the Great Hall to celebrate, and not all were invited to the Great Hall to enjoy the festivity and giving of gifts, or to witness the upcoming pairing or pairings. Slowly, she found her way through, moving silently at the edges of groups gathered in the open room to the door of her private room, opening it slowly—
In her apartment, a tree shimmered and sparkled, gifts were neatly wrapped and placed under the fragrance of green, a fire sparked and cracked, heating the apartment and the vacant seat that looked out onto the balcony. No one took his seat; it was comfortable and inviting; maybe the Kitne clan believed the chair was cursed; maybe they believed it was to be worshipped; when she stopped her slow motion, when her eyes could not stop watering, stop staring at the empty chair, the room became silent.
Daria’s eyes searched the floor, nervously, slowly finding their way to the window that the chair stared out upon where a small girl smiled at her from outside upon the balcony. Courtney’s smile turned to a frown as she felt the sad heart seep into the warm sun. The young girl read Daria’s body, her face, feeling her feelings. The blonde child had been one of few children to escape the Duruabé fires of Lon Coast, a child capable of reading people’s emotions. Daria knew that Roselina had Courtney keep an eye on her, fearing that Daria may to something . . . something unthinkable. The young girl easily picked up on Daria’s kinetic energy, reading her like a book. The young girl also felt the resentment of others in the room, a resentment directed towards Daria. The quiet disappeared as Gar’s family began stammering about unfairness and injustice to Gar and his children, the word “tarnished” heard clearly, but not to her, not for her—for it was all a cover-up of what they truly thought of her and their son’s decision in a wife, keeping their distance, inviting only Gar and the children to gatherings or special events, never treating the children completely as equals to the other children, but always wanting more from Gar, always asking for special gifts, for. . . . At times, Gar was an outcast, only invited for formality at some events,, yet they came every year, with false smiles and open hands to greedily take away any joy she may have, to accuse her of using him to find her way to the King, the King they secretly loathed. Now they will have what they want to back their words, she squeezed the knob in her hand. The only tenderness to be seen were the younger children curling into the arms of parents and grandparents, while the older children preened through presents. Daria’s youngest, Garth, had followed, left the story behind, and curled into Aunt Ameé’s lap, the only Kitne who seemed impartial. She would come by to chat, but Daria was always careful what she shared and said.
“Mommy?” Garth called out, “when can we open the gifts?”
She pulled the words from between her lips slowly, “Soon. First—”
“Excuse my intrusion,” King Se’ven spoke over the persecuting conversations, “Garth left the celebration suddenly. He’s a quick young man. Since I have been led here, there is some business I need to attend to with Lady Kitne. Please, if you would gather in the Great Hall, take Garth with you; there is room. I’m sorry my planner didn’t include you on the list for the Sitting.”
The group became silent, briefly, quickly turning to chattering whispers and mouths hiding behind hands, eyes darting and accusing as they slowly shuffled out. Soon, she knew, a lie would be developed and spread about. Terron followed behind the group, closing the double doors on the trail of Garth waving bye to his mother.
Daria did not move from the door, did not remove her hand that still squeezed the knob. One word repeated in her head, What?
He could see the confusion in her eyes, the hidden tears behind the confusion, and wondered himself why he had not publicly displayed his intentions.
The words that did form and proceeded from her lips, that spat from her tongue was less than pleasant: “You have now made Gar’s family more suspicious, more relentless in finding cause in removing me from the Council and from your service, if not insisting I’m an unfit mother. You walk in behind me, after I’ve quietly managed the room to my private chambers, and—”
“And your anger is much misplace. Is it I you are angered with? them? yourself?”
She made no reply, standing without moving, holding her breath with teeth clenched, attempting to understand the flood of emotions and the fear.
Terron walked slowly towards the unmoving Lady, watching her guard tighten as he approached. “Lady Kitne, you have served me well since your husband’s death, and before then. You have been at my side since before my kingship, before your marriage. We have been through much—the three of us. Now, there is only two. I made a promise to Gar. I’ve given you space, time, all that you needed to mourn him. To keep my promise, to better serve that promise, . . . . Daria, I love you. I have always loved you. Say that you love me now.”
When he had finished his words, he was before her upon his knees. For the first time, Terron could not read her. Not a display of emotion seeped from her eyes. He did not know what to expect. Then, her stance turned business-like.
“I am always in your service,” she lowered her eyes while lifting his ringed-hand to her, dipping and pressing her forehead to his ring. A faint lapse of vertigo caught her off guard, she stumbling to catch herself.
His reaction was not quick enough due to his confused state of her display, making him fall with her, he catching her cheek in his hand before her head hit the hard word floor.
“I’m sorry,” she spoke softly while squeezing her hands into a fist. She needed to be alone; she couldn’t deal with this; she couldn't open herself up to any hope of happiness.
“Why are you sorry? There was nothing either of us could do.”
“No. I’m sorry, I can’t love you.”
“You can’t? Why is this? Or, is it more that you will not allow yourself?”
Strangely, his voice held no anger, but was quite tender, very concerned. Daria had prepared for combat. She wondered if Terron had not asked in public as to not force the answer he wanted.
“Daria. Answer this in complete truth.” She looked into his eyes as they lay on the floor, as he waited to ask his questions. “Do you love me?”
Her face became pain.
“The truth Daria. There is Courtney.”
Her eyes closed slowly, the lids becoming tense with her clinched teeth, her fist still balled, then slowly her entire body softened, as if someone or thing pulled as string, unravelling all the binding fibers closing her off. “Yes.”
Neither spoke. Their eyes watched the other. His hand lifted her chin, his thumb roamed her lips. “I have not courted you, seeing how you turned away others. I feared you still mourned, and then . . . I thought it was me seeing things. But Roselina, even your daughter and son, saw it, as did others. I waited. I can wait no longer. It will be easier to care for you and the children as my wife.” His thumb roamed her lips more, but the did not move towards her.
“You’re shaking.”
“Yes. I’m cold. The floor is cold. And . . . I’m scared.”
This is not a women who is often silent or has a loss of words. Scared is not in her vocabulary, he knew, although there were times she displayed it briefly, always moving forward.
“Together we can do this.” Hell, he was scared too. He knew the challenges that lay ahead for this kingdom, for this marriage, a marriage he knew would take place, if not today, soon, very soon. “Will you marry me?”
Terron, my Duruabe past?” She spoke calmly, pulling his hand from her face. Placing her palm square to the floor, she positioned herself to stand.
GEntly, he placed his hand on her elbow. “Daria, let us stay down here.”
She stayed upon her hands and knees. “We are not children.”
“No, we are not. I like it here, just like this, beside you,” he rolled onto his back, letting go of her arm, then continued, “You were washed of your lineage; your grandmother turned from her people. Have not the lords of my court accepted you since Gar brought you forth? Have you not been loyal to your husband and King?”
She stayed as she was. She knew Terron was attempting to lessen the fear, to lighten her mood, to console her. “Yes; still, Gar was only a servant of the court.”
“Second to me. He would be king if I were not here.” He reached up to twist her hair in his finger, she lowering herself to her stomach, propping her chin upon her hands held up by bent elbows. “I have loved you a long time. And have waited. Tomorrow, I would like, before the Even Dance, my sister will announce our confirmation. There isn’t really time for courting.”
“What is the urgency?”
“I have seen. . . . It’ not of importance; not now.”
“Terron, we cannot start our marriage on secrets.”
“So, you do accept?”
She had not realized what she said; the surprise expressed in her sudden intake of breath. She dropped her head to the floor. “You tricked me.”
“Yes I did. So, you do accept?”
“I do.”
Curling into his raised arm, she lay her hand upon his chest, feeling the warmth emulate. Sorrow roamed in the love. Fear roamed in the love. Her past, the very distant past of her Duruabe roots tore at her as she remembered the dreams that invaded her sleep as a child. Children crying for help, wanting the freedom that would not be given to them. Bodies: limbs torn from torsos, unborn children ripped from their mothers and left to die, and. . . . Gran’ma’s words etched the lining of her lids: “You will save them.” Gran’ma would say this every night she woke from the horror. Hadn’t she been saving them since marrying Gar? Why now do the words haunt her? Out of the quiet, Terron spoke, “There is only the elite left; but their power is so great that the first Duruabe families are now dying at the hands of their own. The elite that rule are no longer of royal blood, they are those who have been interbred and trained to do business, to make money at any cost, to have power over all, even the truth. Your people cry for mercy, knowing that their ways were wrong. Your marriage to me will give me ability to intervene.”
What had he said? Had he read her mind? “What?”
“I was only thinking out loud. Our marriage will bring grief foe some but release far many.”
She propped herself up onto her elbow, looking down upon him.
“What’s wrong?”
“I—. Were you—? Did you ever meet my grandmother, in person; spoke to her?”
“I had the pleasure of listening to her tell stories. Never did get to speak with her. Why?
“Ummm.”
“You look frightened. What is wrong?”
“My grandmother use to say, ‘You will save them,’ after each nightmare I woke from, nightmares about what we left behind. I haven’t thought about the dreams for years, and I just remembered what she would say to me just before you spoke.”
He reached up with both hands, put her face between his hands, “Your grandmother had great wisdom. She saw beyond the moment, always working for the future. Her stories told the children how to do, not to wait.”
Nodding, she lay back into the cradle of his arm. “How long will we lay here? There is a party outside the doors. Someone will be asking about your disappearance.”
“Roselina, and Garrin, will be here to escort us to—. And, there they are!” The signal resinated through the living area with two pounds and a rap on the doors.
The celebration had spilled into the halls with sound-makers filling the corridor. The noise took Daria back to the first Our Messiah without Gar, and her oldest, Garrin, already taking his father’s place among the Lords—he leaving the family apartment two weeks after Gar’s death; a year later he told her it was time for you to find another, as if he knew her heart; and with those words came it is not good for you to be alone. A smile absorbed her face. Even he knew the energy that formed between her and Terron. And within that smile there was hurt, but not because Terron hadn’t tried. He had kept his promise to be a father to her children, to Gar’s children, especially the youngest, who only had a picture to conjure a face of the man who fathered him. Terron had tried his best with Lawrence, her third child, and her most troubled child. He was cold, angry, and terrified. Garrin had tried to fill his father's shoes with his brother, knowing Lawrence was acting out his feelings of loss, but with no results. Her other children were handling it, as far as she could see; and it occurred to her, how would they all react to this on Our Messiah’s day?
now upon their feet, Terron’s fingers trickled down her neck to her shoulder, the tickle bringing her back to the moment, and with questions: where were they going, and how would they escape unseen and unrecognized through the crowd? Then, as if realizing for the first time she was a mother, she yelled out, “Who will be caring for Gardinia and Garth?
Terron answered quickly, knowing a great panic would arise if the children weren’t securely in bed by eight—holidays no exception. He would change that. “My sister and Lillian will have them in bed, on time, in their beds of course.”
“Under guard?”
“Only to keep your mind with me.”
He took her hand and spun her about. “I have not had the pleasure of your lips.” She had not time to stop him.
“Terron, this is Gar’s place, please.”
“Forgive me, My Lady.”
He bowed to the woman who would not defile the home of a family devoted to a man so loved, and he would not do so again.
Gar was a devoted husband, father, and servant to the kingdom. Terron had not lied when he spoke of Gar’s position. The Lords had chosen him as successor, but to their knowledge Gar was never indoctriniated to be so; only Kenard Longhonr knew. Terron took comfort in knowin gtaht Gar would have blessed this marriage if he coudl return from the grave. A discussion crept into his mind, a discussion from the mission that Gar did not return from:
“You love her? That is why you look at no ohter. Sire, why did you not tel me before we—”
“No. I could not make her shoose, and I would not bring our friendship to an end. Besides, you wen tforward, I did nothing.”
“If I should perish—”
“Do not speak it!”
“Hear me out. If I should perish, I bless the union of Daria and you. She lover her King; I know if I had not found her first, her heart would have fallen to you.”
“Is it possible for a soul to have more than one mate?”
“Aye. I have you, and her.”
Aye. The historical language not entirely lost in history always found its way through in Gar’s words. Terron had kept his promise. Not only this one, but to find a Gaiyle teacher for Garrin and the others. Garrin spoke fluently in Gailyia, although there were few who could understand him. Gar had taught him well. Lawrence had taken no interest, while Lillian could communicate in Gailyia—she was not as adapt in the language as Gar. The youngest two were doing well in the language, and the twins could nearly speak as well as Garrin. Garrin followed his father’s footsteps, becoming the youngest Lord in Terron’s council. His sister, Lillian, was a year from joining other women on the council. Lady Mabahabe prepared her for her placement. Gar’s children were intelligent and very persuasive; their views firm and loyal in serving their King; as we their father’s. the middle three, still young, had their talents, but the twins had few years before a decision would be made, while Lawrence would not raise to a position with the attitude he displayed as of now.
The noise grew, and a loud banging woke Terron from his deep thinking.
“My Lady, shall we leave and begin our journey?”
Daria bowed, still fearful but moving forward. “I’m in your service.” she replied quietly.
The celebration in the hallway impeded their progress to the chamber where Rabbit Longhorn and Lady Roselina Se’ven awaited. Rabbi Kenard Longhorn had ordained Terron thrity-five years ago. when he was only nine, and then blessed his choice of next to reign six years later. Longhorn hadn’t been much older than Terron at the coronation, the kingdom brought back from disaster by the young after the Duruabe slaughtered and enslaved most of Germaine. Those who helped keep the kingdom did so t see the efforts of their parents carried out, giving of themselves to Messiah, the All Powerful.
“Daria,” Terron attempted to be quiet and heard, his voice just audible over th chatter, he pulling her in as they walked through the people, “I think the portal may be wise. I see Sir Gavin and your son ahead. I’m sure they will acquire into our being hand in hand.” Terron and Daria stole away to the hall where guards stood to keep strays from wondering near the portals. An instinctive bow began, but Terron’s quick wave stopped the, giving a signal of “no” with a gesture, then pointing at his eyes with two fingers, the guards giving a casual nod in their normal stance.
The happy celebrators never noticed the whirring sound over the celebratory noise.
The couple stepped from the rings outside the main chamber of the Royal apartment. Roselina could be heard making last minute demands from the chamber servants, who had been sworn to secrecy about the preparations.
“Roselina,” Terron called through the doors, “send them away.”
“Shew, shew! Go! Out the service entrance and do not return!”
A few minutes passed, and the ‘all clear’ was given.
The greeting was duel: the beauty of the apartment filled with rose petals and white lilies, and Rabbi Longhorn’s hand.
“My Lord,” Rabbi Longhorn bowed, then escorting Daria and Terron the bed chamber; Roselina curtsied while Longhorn continue by leaning into Terron’s ear, without even taking a breath, “I see your choice was predetermined by words spoken before Gar’s death.”
“Was there any doubt?”
“Shall we hasten our efforts?”
“Rabbi,” Terron nodded, “my lips await to say, ‘pledge’.”
“My Lady, have you given permission?”
“Yes, Rabbi.”
“Lady Se’ven will witness this joining. Please kneel before me.”
They kneeled, holding hands, upon crimison pillow speckled with rose petals and lilies--the meaning of heart and purity. Candles adorned every corner, evry level of surface in the chamber, and a bunchd veil was strewn from one wall to the other between Terron and Daria by Roslina. When the veil dropped, he released her hand.
The Rabbi stood before Terron first: “Terron Se’ven, on this three-thousandth year of our Lord Messiah, the twenty-first day of Augmon, you kneel before the Mighty Hand for His Blessings in an union with aria Rhyneheart Kitne. If this union be so blessed, may the earth be quiet, and if not, may the sky devour the eyes, the earth open and swallow. Terron, do you take this woman to your bosom in thanksgiving, with the knowledge of good and bad, and pledge an eternity of life upon the earth with her, forever, and unto the end?”
“I pledge myself for an eternity.”
Upon Terron’s words, Rabbi Longhorn lifted the veil, stepping before Daria: “Daria Rhyneheart Kitne, on this three-thousandth year of our Lord Messiah, the twenty-first day of Augmon, you kneel before the Mighty Hand for His Blessings in an union with Terron Se’ven. If this union be so blessed, may the earth be quiet, and if not, may the sky devour the eye, the earth open and swallow. Daria, do you take this man to your bosom in thanksgiving, with the knowledge of good and bad, and pledge an eternity of life upon the earth with him, forever, and unto the end?”
“I pledge myself for an eternity.”
“You may cut the division and see the other with clarity, glory, triumphant rejoicing, and youthful minds. Messiah, the All Mighty, bless your bed and keep your hearts tied.”
“Amen,” they all replied, Terron and Daria cutting the veil with the knives hidden under their pillows. Before they kissed, Rabbi Longhorn bowed, speaking rather rushed: “Now, if you two will excuse me, I need to prepare for evening mass. If you wish to partake of Suuper, I will send Brother Audrey to your chambers at midnight.”
“We do,” they nodded.
Rabbi Longhorn bowed out, setting the latch as he closed the door.
Still, not a chance to share lips, a cry rings out. “Brother!” Roselina stretes out her arms, smothering the still kneeling King into her breast. “Now, I may continue in my search and succumb to a man without feeling I have to tend to.”
She grabbed his hand as he spoke, taking Daria into her free arm: “My not being married was never to keep you tied to me. I always thought you were still looking.
She released Daria, grabbing her hand, placing it into Terron’s. “You chose wisely,” she smiled, winking, adding, “Oh, I have chosen some time ago.”
Placing fingers to their lips, then taking them to her lips, she left them kneeling speechless, having her last words as she opened the door: “I bid you this evening, and see you both on the Eve Dance,” the door closing gently behind her.
The door latched once more, the stillness enveloping the new couple, and his nerves. The only knowledge Terron carried with him on being alone with a woman was talk, some kissing, and . . . not much else. He had not known the pleasure of a woman. She, being of another, had a piece of wisdom he had not. Yes, he had heard talk, and Lord Hanser—his teacher, confidant, counselor, father by being elder—was not a man that spoke easily of such things, shying away from the anatomy of a woman, shying away from any discussion dealing with a woman. After the death of his parents, and his crowing, Sir Edmory Hanser took him to his side, fathering him best he could, having no practice by way of children of his own. The man was shy around women, unless it was about business.
He started with what he knew best; he brought her hands to his lips, kissing her knuckles with the lightest touch, slowly standing and bringing her with him. Once they stood, he placed a hand on her face, he doing the same to him, nearing each other. . . . His lips wrapped into hers, he surprised by the overflow of emotion coming from her, and more so from himself, plus the intensity and depth the partook of her mouth. He felt the animal in him begin to rage, and as he pushed back, she gently pulled him to her. He felt like a child with an older woman being given his first lesson. This feeling brought Elanor Hanser’s wise words to mind: “Be patient with yourself, nature will lead you, but be calm, be calm, you don’t want to scare the poor girl off.” He smiled largely as he buried his lips into Daria’s neck.
She felt the tension fall from his shoulders. His hands tucked under her arms, he bending his knees, lifting her up, his lips tracing a way to between her breast, she wrapping her legs around his waist. Wrapping his arms about her, he squeezed, turning his head up to meet her lips. Unexpectedly, a moan escaped from his throat, something that only he heard other men speak of jokingly, as if they were animals let loose from a caged life. There was no denying such a feeling. He walked to the bed.
Daria swallowed hard as fear intruded, burying here head into his neck, an intrusion of the past, but she scorned herself: press on, she nodded to herself, press on. She liked this feeling, she wanted this feeling, she waited for this feeling to be let free, she would not allow herself to be denied by fear, no longer, no longer.
Time had brought more beauty to the chamber, the chamber flickering all around them as the candles’ wicks burned down; an aroma of lilies and roses enveloped their every move; the room turned into night, a night of stars filling the ceiling and walls, the floor an echo of light.
Augmon 22, 3000
“Honored guest, friends, and family, on behalf of my brother, King Terron Se’ven, I welcome you and hope you have enjoyed our hospitality. Upon this night we gather to give thanks and open our hearts unto those less fortunate than us. As always, it is a radition to hornor a couple newly wed and to toast them in their life long commitment. Normally, the couple is chosen from the people, but this night, I and the King’s Lords and Ladies rejoice in introducing the people’s Queen, Daria of Kitne, and your Royal Highness Terron Se’ven, King and Queen Se’ven.”
Together they walked out to stand in front of the one chair that honored the room. Soon, another chair would be in place. The people’s silence upon the announcement were no longer whispers, tongues slicing the gasps of shock. The many eyes in awe half remarked on the choice of a once married woman, a woman already burdened with children and touched by a man before, a woman not of true blood but married into, the other half elated to see the King with a wife and the prospect of having an heir to the throne, knowing Lady Kitne had served the people always with the people’s interest in mind. The stir displayed wasn’t unexpected.
Daria curtsied before her subjects, knowing the shock would lead into questions then rumors, and possibly jealousy among the single women of the court that she assumed to be friends, also those who knew her blood wasn’t of royalty, Germaine royalty. What if they knew her true blood? She saw her sister-in-law Ameé, her face, the only Kitne face, sympathetic and kind, while the others persecuted her with their eyes. She didn’t have to hear their thoughts, she knew them: Trash; using my brother to get to the King’s bed. Who had him killed? These words, though not spoken, were clear and directed at her, she shutting her eyes to lose the connecton. She fought back the tears of hurt, not only for herself, but what her children would bare through Gar’s family. Acceptance was little in her position. She tired of it often, and now. . . ; now the lack of acceptance would be much greater.
Terron escorted her through the crowd for the welcome to be given by his Lords and Ladies. Their faces were accepting and appeared well pleased with his decision: “My Lady,” each repeated and bowed, politely, as she passed.
Lord Edmory Hanser halted the procession with his tremendous booming voice, speaking for them all: “You Highness, it greatly pleases us to see you as his chosen. There was no woman we could find more in favor in his eyes, or ours.” The people, those near to the Lords and Ladies, hearing the words, broke the spell, clapped and hoorayed, even if they did not agree, bringing more cheers, as a ripple, the others not knowing what they cheered for. Balloons and doves were released, the doves fluttering to the top of the high ceiling, scattering the balloons, the birds searching for a way out, a few following some of the floating balloons out the window, and finally, as the balloons cleared, the birds escaped, but a few, occasionally sweeping the crowd.
During the release, the Lords and Ladies conversed while Daria listened closely, listening closely to hear any betrayal or descent within a voice or within chosen words:
“But it is the people who will need convincing”; “Our acceptance will convince them”; “I hope your words are true”; “People can smell descent; we must have none”; “Quite right.”
Garrin came upon her, breaking her concentration. “Mother. Sire,” Garrin bowed to each. “It’s about time. I thought the old man didn’t have it in him.”
“Garrin!” Daria scowled at his up front attitude.
“It’s alright Daria. The Lords and Ladies speak freely, and your son has been concerned. He nearly begged me to take you.”
The men laughed. Daria blushed with her comment, “He didn’t?” looking straight into Terron’s eyes. Surely he did! his face spoke clearly.
“Who is it I have to congratulate in joining you two?” Garrin spoke further.
“My sister.”
“A sweet thing she is,” Garrin smiled largely, his eyes brightened, his mother catching the look, just like his father’s.
Could it be? Daria squinted inquisitively at her son, while Terron’s face stood in awe. His expression just as inquisitive, thinking exactly the same. Roselina somewhat older than Garrin came up from behind, grabbing Garrin’s arm, warmly. Garrin winked at his mother, walking away with Roselina on his arm. Neither Daria or Terron could speak, Lord Hanser breaking the awkwardness: “Looks as if thos etwo have osmething else on their minds.” With those words as an entryway, Hanser continued, “Sire,” placing a hand on Terron’s shoulder, “I need a private word with you.”
Terron nodded, excusing himself: Escuse me, wife and court,” bowing out as the Lords and Ladies swarmed his wife.
The two found an empty space some distant from the crowd: “Have you touched?” Hanser began, the concern in his voice evident.
“No. I did not want our first night mixed with business, and besides, if what we suspect, she would be unable to function completely for some time.”
“True. I’m sure the Jackels do not know yet, but I advise a quick gather. The Jackels will be at work upon the word.”
“This night Lord Hanser, this night. I’m unsure how she’ll react with this. I have just gained a wife, and I could lose a wife, all within twenty-four hours.”
“Terron?” Why so formal? You have been the son I lost.”
“And you the father I have lost. The Duruabians will bow or be destroyed.”
“Son, remember, it is not you they must bow to. We forgot this thrity-eight years ago.”
“I know Edmory. Because of our arrogance, Germaine nearly lost the land given to us by the Messiah. The praise is His, and I will be strengthened by Him for Him.”
“I don’t wish harm on your Lady, none, for I have a great love and respect for Lady Kitne. She ash been good for this Kindgom. Time is not our friend, and neither is safety.”
“I know. How much I know this.”
5/7/10
Peripheral
I am me, only in the dark. My imagination
doesn’t see faces as I linger on want. It is,
like, the future has no existence. Night blinds
the vision, causes disappearance. In the dark,
I can ask questions, make my own answers. In the dark,
all is quiet, all vision becomes
haunted by side viewing. All possibilities
exist. There are none to touch. Vision
makes error, such as the shadow
fingering the pillow below the head. In the dark,
freedom is known. My answers create despair,
knowing the light ends my destiny.
doesn’t see faces as I linger on want. It is,
like, the future has no existence. Night blinds
the vision, causes disappearance. In the dark,
I can ask questions, make my own answers. In the dark,
all is quiet, all vision becomes
haunted by side viewing. All possibilities
exist. There are none to touch. Vision
makes error, such as the shadow
fingering the pillow below the head. In the dark,
freedom is known. My answers create despair,
knowing the light ends my destiny.
3/29/10
Excerpt from The Beasthood: Letters and Converstions Between Boston and Indianapolis
From Boston
to
Adorra Rose, c/o Cicsi Loop
1 West 2nd, Apt. B
Indianapolis, Ind.
to
Adorra Rose, c/o Cicsi Loop
1 West 2nd, Apt. B
Indianapolis, Ind.
September 11, 1834
Dear Sister,
You must come home. Mr. Cougar has been asking for you. He is very ill, and the doctor believes your presence will do him good. I never did understand why you left. He loves you so much, and I thought you loved him. He speaks of you often. Last night he held a dinner party in your honor, to your return. It took so much out of him, and his face, his eyes, were so down trodden I didn’t’ think he would be able to entertain. Many women made a move on him. He warded them off, thinking only of you. We talk often, but he will not tell me what it was that made you run. Please come home, just to brighten those eyes of his. It is sad to see him this way. When he hears your name he brightens, only to sink back into the deepest depression of himself. This party brightened the house, for the curtains were pulled back, and still are—this gives me hope.
I’m writing this letter against his judgment. He says you must come to him of your own free will.
Love, Your Darling Sister
Cherish
XOXO
I miss you!
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February 24, 1835
Dear Sister,
I was exuberant in seeing you, as was mother, after two years. Your return made him alive; but you left so abruptly that day. What was wrong? Won’t you speak to me? Mr. Cougar expects your return any day again, and waits. I think he wants to marry you. Miss Tossil has tried to catch his eye. I overheard her speaking to him, making snide remarks about the way you have treated him. I must agree on one thing, your actions leave things open for gossip. Anyhow, Mr. Cougar thwarted her advancements, detouring her thoughts into starting a shelter for widows—or more less, made Miss. Tossil think it was her idea. The Old Hill place, the one left abandoned, that will be renovated.
Love, Your Darling Sister
Cherish
P.S. My friend in Indy visited today. He said something very odd. You don’t live at this address. The residence acted as if my friend had lost his mind. Why would they lie? Or have you moved? Let me know.
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January 30, 1836
Dear Sister,
Mr. Cougar is bedridden. He will not see any person, not even the doctor. I had to force him to allow the doctor in. I’m surprised he even allows me to come and visit. But he has me read your letters to him; they comfort him. After I read a letter I see a small shine in his eyes. What have you done? What did he do? I’m afraid if you don’t come soon he will die. The doctor says there is nothing more he could do for him.
Love, Your Darling Sister
Cherish
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March 1, 1836
Dear Sister,
I’m telegraphing you because we will be burying Mr. Cougar in two days. Is there anyway you can come? Boston isn’t far from you, by train. I think you should give your last departing words to Mr. Cougar. No women made him stray from your love. His last words to me were he wanted a family, to have a family with you. Since he is gone now, come on home. Mamma misses you, and so do I. Have you liked the pictures I’ve sent you? You never mention them in your letters. Mr. Cougar wanted you to have them; he took most of them himself, with the new type of photograph box. I’ve learned how to use it. I think there is money in this new product. I’ve strayed from the subject. Please come to Boston.
Love, Your Darling Sister
Cherish
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March 15, 1836
Dear Sister,
You will find the photograph box enclosed in this package. Mr. Cougar’s Will will be read March 4th. Please come.
Love, Your Darling Sister
Cherish
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March 26, 1836
Dear Sister
Mr. Cougar left you everything! The house and all within it, the stables, the new business that he bequeathed me to run, as president! Sister, why is it that you ran, and keep away? Can you not share your secret? Something had to be wrong. Every moment, every hour, he spoke of you with love, nothing more. What was it that kept you away?
Love, Your Darling Sister
Cherish
P.S. Finalization cannot be completed until your arrival or that of your offspring. Come soon. Why would he request you offspring?
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April 11, 1836
Dear Sister
I’m sorry to hear you feel that way. And in turn, I and ma, and my new husband thank you for the home, but we cannot keep it. We will send you rent money. Mr. Cougar made it very clear that the property could never be sold, and any heirs that you were to have would inherit the property. Mr. Cougar bought a law firm to secure this. Please come home and claim what has been given to you. In the mean time, mamma and I will keep the place in shape.
Love, Your Darling Sister
Cherish
P.S. The business keeps us real busy. Short letters will be my best. Come home.
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October 13, 1836
Dear Sister,
I was surprised to see you open up. I will keep this news from mamma, as you asked. But you must know, mamma wants grandchildren, and if I told her she would stay off my back! Come home. I really need your help here. The business is crazy! Who did you marry? You did marry? Why didn’t you tell Mr. Cougar and release him from his pain? Two girls: Darling and Precious. Lovely names. Boston is wonderful, so full of life, a wonderful place to raise children. Think about it, would you.
Your letters worry me. Are you ill?
Love, Your Darling Sister
Cherish
P.S. There is one room we cannot open. The skeleton key won’t even open it. Do you know where this key is? The house plans does not even show that the room exist. If we do not find a key soon, I’m afraid Alfred will cut down the door.
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November 25, 1836
Dear Sister,
Why so frantic? I’ll do my best to change Alfred’s mind about opening the door. Whatever is behind it? You sound frightened by it. Please tell me why. Come home so the door will never be opened and the secret of Mr. Cougar’s will be kept. I’m sure you are right that Mr. Cougar never wished that door opened by anyone but him.
Love, Your Darling Sister
Cherish
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February 12, 1837
Dear Sister,
Do not worry, Alfred has given up on opening that door. Mamma was very forceful in persuading Alfred that the room was a sacred place and that Mr. Cougar would haunt him for disturbing it. I’m confused by mamma’s way. She seems just as frightened of that room as you do in your letters. What is behind that door?
Love, Your Darling Sister
Cherish
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June 27, 1837
Dear Sister,
Why did it take so long for you to tell me all this? What do you mean you are not married? Were you raped? Did you let yourself . . . go? I understand why you do not want mother to know. Were you having an affair with a married man while you were away? This is not you. What happened all those years ago? Maybe I have jumped to a conclusion, and you are a widow. Many widows do not speak of their dead husbands. It causes too much pain. I apologize for judging you. I have no right, I do not know what circumstances you were in.
Love, Your Darling Sister
Cherish
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July 19, 1837
Dear Sister,
Your last letter was . . . . I don’t know what to say. No one would have known what Mr. Cougar was. Why did you not tell me? tell mamma? But you were wrong in not telling Mr. Cougar about the children, for they are his. No matter how much of a disorder he had, he was a man with a heart, more heart than a full-fledge man. I understand your fear of the girls becoming animal like in instinct, but don’t you think living in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of a wild forest that it would make it prominent? The city does not contain the same hunt as the woods. I will pray for you.
Love, Your Darling Sister
Cherish
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October 1, 1838
Dear Sister
I’m sending the last letter. All funds due you for rent and profits will be done through a lawyer. I only wanted the best for you and your daughters; and regardless how you feel, your daughters will inherit everything. I’m sorry you feel as you do. I didn’t send anyone to bring you home. I don’t even know this Mr. Lyon! Someday I hope to see you and the girls. I have a son, Will. I will no longer take these accusations from you.
Love, Your Darling Sister
Cherish
P.S. I do believe that Mr. Cougar had a nephew, which visited mamma and I before Mr. Cougar died, sometime after you left the second time. Whom you describe sounds like that person. But he didn’t say his name was Mr. Lyon, he called himself Detroit.
3/26/10
The Case of Two Brains
In the courtroom, a man sits on the witness stand, the man innocent of killing his boss, his mailman, his fiancé, his . . . better half, or at least the attempt of killing his better half.
The prosecuting attorney approaches Mr. Kim. “So, Mr. Kim, isn’t it true that no one saw you at Toe Joe’s Jam & Celery the morning of April 15th, where you said you were grocery shopping for exotic foods needed for that nights business party, the same morning your boss came up missing, the same morning your fiancé was found drowned in your pool, the same morning the mailman crashed right after delivery your mail?”
“Yes. I mean no. I mean—”
“Which is it Mr. Kim?”
The docile, quiet, wringing hands, mild manner clerk breathes deep. The man whom broke into tears when nervous or under a great deal of pressure loses his composer, coming out booming; booming like a gorilla poked in his cage: “MR. CROMBAG, YOU’LL NOT ADDRESS MY BROTHER AS SUCH!”
Mr. Crombag backs off, but not before the face of the defendant plunges into Mr. Crombag’s nose, blinding him with close proximity. He looks at the demeanor of the man sitting on the witness stand. Mr. Kim is different. His face scowls; frightening to look at. The scowl has a knowingly smile behind it. His posture is now straight, not slumped, a confident person full of sureness, strength, and power. The man who now sits on the witness stand isn’t Mr. Kim but a person who takes Mr. Kim’s body at will.
Mr. Crombag has heard of things like this before when a calm, normal man just goes wacko. “Who are you?” he squints his eyes and dares to near the new witness.
The voice is rough, a gargling sound, gruff like a dog growling through a bark: “The man who protects my brother.”
“Do you have a name?”
“YOU’LL ADDRESS ME AS SIR!”
The judge pounds his gavel. “Mr. Kim, you’ll not be hostile towards Mr. Crombag.”
The unknown looks at the judge, calmly, and with the same voice speaks softly: “I am not Mr. Kim, Your Honor. I will,” the word is backed by gritted teeth, “be addressed with respect if,” his eyebrows raise and a finger points up, “you want answers.” And quickly he adds, pointing his finger towards Mr. Crombag, “You no longer attack my brother.”
The judge glares at the character before him. They stare. The message is clear: This is my court, you’ll not dictate.
“Of course, Your Honor, I apologize for my temper. Just don’t attack my brother,” he glares at Mr. Crombag with a heavier warning. The eyes speak Death.
“Carry on, Mr. Crombag.”
Mr. Crombag nods to the judge. “Thank you, Your Honor.”
“I will ask again,” with a look from the unknown, and a low growl, from the witness stand, “. . . sir,” Mr. Crombag heavily sighs, “what are you named?”
“My name is Trent.”
“Trent, will you allow Mr. Kim to return?”
“No. My brother need not deal with you any further. You will be dealing with me. Is that clear?”
Very clear. Mr. Crombag has to think quickly about his next move. This was unexpected. He paces a bit before Trent, tapping his fingers upon his leg. What does he know about dual personalities? Nothing. He would have to play this out by instinct. I just hope it doesn’t get me murdered. And then he looks over to the District Attorney. He is making no move to ask for a recess. In fact, the man looks like he is in serious shock, still. Mr. Crombag looks at the judge. His expression isn’t identifiable—is it shock like the rest of us? This is a judge that doesn’t rattle; this is why he chose him; better chance of getting something done.
“Trent, why does Mr. Kim need your protection?”
“Because of people like you. He’ll say anything to keep conflict out of his life, just like that dumb bitch that was making him dress like she wanted.”
“Who is this dumb bitch?”
“Toto May.”
“Trent, sir, did you kill Toto May?”
“Not actually. As Kim Kim turned away frustrated after trying to say he didn’t like the outfit she wanted him to wear that night for best appearance with the boss, I stuck out my foot so she’d fall into the pool while jerking the chair from out under her as she stood up to follow him. She hit her head on the way down, made no noise. Kim Kim kept on going, knowing nothing. I wasn’t going to tell him.”
“And the mailman, Jarmen King?”
Trent sits silently.
“Answer the man,” the judge leans over, as if to whisper into the defendant’s ear.
No attempt is made by Trent to open his mouth.
The judge keeps his eyes upon the Mr. Kim. “This is my court, and respect is two ways, not one way; thus, you will answer the man Mr. Kim. Do not intimidate me.”
Trent stares out into the court room. Growling.
“Bailiff!” the Judge calls.
The answer comes immediately, “I didn’t do that one.”
“You mean Mr. Kim did?”
“No. We would be dead if Mr. King hadn’t been there before us. Mr. King was a good man. The letter wasn’t supposed to blow up until I called mom. The letter was programmed to Robin’s signal coming through, no one else's.”
“Who wrote the letter? Sir?”
“Kim Kim did most of it. But I had to tell mom I was still alive. I knew she would get the letter in two days; I would give her a day to think, in which she would call Dr. Handable to get rid of me. I know she wouldn’t let the letter out of sight.”
Still alive?
Even the judge straightens in his seat.
“So Mr. King was inadvertently killed. You didn’t get the signal set quite right, the mini bomb exploding when his phone went off?”
“I supposed so. I felt badly about that.”
“So, there are people who know about you? Does Mr. Kim?”
“They did; they do. But I was weak for a long time after mom sent us here for surgery. Something was wrong with Kim Kim.”
“Where is here?”
Trent doesn’t reply. Mr. Crombag doesn’t pursue. He then looks back at the District Attorney, Antonio Biggs. He shrugs his shoulders.
“Trent, sir, may I speak to Mr. Kim? I promise to not attack him.”
“No. Lawyers lie.” Trent crinkles his eyes right at Mr. Biggs. Biggs isn’t watching his client because he is too busy writing on his tablet.
Very well. No one is objecting to this, I’m going to go on full blast.
“Trent. Why do you think Mr. Kim had surgery?”
“Something wrong with his head.”
“How old were you when this surgery took place?”
Trent puckers his lips in and then speaks thoughtfully. “About two. We hadn’t been toilet trained for long.”
He actually wants me to believe he can remember that far back? A handful of people may remember when they are two.
“What happened after the surgery?”
“Kim Kim was able to move but I couldn’t. I could sense all Kim Kim did; could see and hear some things, but limitedly; could feel Kim Kim was a little lost, too, so I vowed to get better, for him. It was difficult.”
Mr. Crombag comes closer to the body of Mr. Kim and stares into those eyes glazed by contempt. “You keep calling Mr. Kim, Kim Kim. How come, sir?”
“That was his name. Not this Robin name. Mom wanted him to sound more United States of American.”
“How is it you chose the name Trent? It is a European name, sir.”
Trent became tense, his face narrowing along with his eyes. Aha! He had hit a nerve. He didn’t like his name.
“I don’t remember any names from our home country. I couldn’t call myself Kim, could I?” Trent snorts, as if he had won a battle.
“No. I guess you couldn’t.”
“Besides,” Trent continues, “Trent is a strong name. Is there something wrong with it?”
Perfect. Strike now. “Yes. It doesn’t mean Victory, as my name Victor.”
“HOW DARE YOU! I’M GREAT!” Trent stands and lifts his fist in the air, roaring, bringing them down onto the banister.
“MR. KIM,” Judge Be Leigh pounds his gavel, “You. Will. Sit. Down. No More Outbreaks!”
Trent sits. Mr. Kim’s face puffs and reddens, his hands clutch the banister.
“Mr. Kim,” Mr. Crombag changes strategies, “have you ever known of Trent?”
“I Am Trent!”
“Mr. Kim, why is it that your brother defends you?”
“He doesn’t know I’m alive!”
“How can Trent be in your brain without your knowledge, and yet he knows all about you?”
“I shut off the memory when I do the work.”
“Mr. Kim, why do you allow another to do your dirty work?”
“HE DOESN’T!”
The guards are right there before Mr. Kim’s body lifts over the banister to strike at Mr. Crombag.
Quickly, Mr. Crombag goes to the judge. Mr. King joins him. “We’ve gone this far. Restrain him. I want to finish this. This can’t be real; the mandatory psychological testing done every month by his company couldn’t miss this.”
“If Mr. King approves.”
“Very much. This will put in a plea of insanity.”
Mr. Crombag smiles brilliantly. There isn’t going to be a new trial for an insanity plea. It is ending here. He goes back to the defendant. He looks at the body of Mr. Kim as they restrain him.
“Whom am I addressing?”
Mr. Kim jerks at the cuffs placed on his arms and legs. Obviously it is Trent. His confinement takes away some of his fight as the realization that he is going to harm no one comes to him.
“Your name is Robin Kim. You are named after the bird with a red breast to show off. They fly away.”
“My name is Trent!”
“Trent is nothing. Trent deceives his brother. Trent lies to his brother. Trent hurts his brother.”
The man growls and jerks, again, the muscles bulge from his forearms.
“Trent is imaginary. Trent doesn’t exist. Trent is an excuse to destroy because Robin can’t, just like the bird, because Robin can’t accept his weakness.”
Mr. Kim’s face is nearly purple. The man is holding his breath, and covering his ears best he can between his upraised arms.
“Trent is a coward, makes Robin a coward because he hides in Robin as Robin hides in Trent. Robin is afraid of Trent.”
Mr. Kim keeps his hands up with his body bent forward, allowing him to plug his ears. He doesn’t move from this position.
“I will win because I have the strong name and your real name is weak. I’m Victor, victorious; you’re Robin, the bird that flies away.”
Mr. Kim straightens, struggling for breath, his eyes rolling up into his head. The whites are clearly visible. His face is purple and red; his throat instinctively grasps for air that just isn’t there, clutching for air in a the space filled with tense aspiration of a crowd, a crowd that swallows the air for their own lungs. The body collapses to the floor, banging into the banister before rolling down the two steps on the side, flopping wildly. A medic is called. An observer from the courtroom comes forward as the words ring out, “Call 911. He’s seizing.”
One second passes, then two, and before the third second strikes, Mr. Kim is sitting up looking dazed and confused, but also spouting words in a calm voice: “You will not have control of me Trent; you were erased because you could not function; I was saved to be complete, to be whole; you will not take this away; I will not be weak; You will not make me do what I do not want; I will tell them the truth; I will admit to what has been done through my body by your brain, the brain that I will rid myself of; do you hear me Trent; do you understand me Trent; I am no longer a patsy to you, to anyone; I was a fool; I have found the way to stand up for me; I never needed you; don’t use me as an excuse to do as you please; you were never suited for society, you are not suited for society; I am done with your presence; you will no longer force me into darkness; I will no longer hide from you to do what is right; do you hear me Robin; do you?”
“Order, order,” the Judge pounds his gavel hard and in rhythm with the breaths of the crowd “oh”ing as if watching a magician do a trick.
“Yes, sir,” Mr. Kim stands slowly after spewing his intentions. “Trent will no longer interfere, you have my word.”
“Is this some game, Mr. Kim?”
“No Your Honor. Please call me Mr. Kim, or Trent.” Mr. Kim takes the witness seat. As he sits, a man from the back of the court runs forward, the doors to the court room booming against the wall as they strike, the man waving a paper, yelling, “Please, sir, allow me to come forward, allow me to speak!”
The judge, wanting some clarity, demands to know who this man is, demands to know if either lawyers know about this paper, if someone is attempting to make a circus out of his court, spurting everything that comes to mind. After some time, Judge Be Leigh calms into his finals words, “Will this paper give evidence to Mr. Kim’s well-being, seeing you are the doctor, one of several doctors, who performed the initial surgery that Mr. Kim mentioned.”
“Yes, Your Honor, this paper will. I even brought in my hard drive to prove that it wasn’t fabricated.”
“Hard drive?”
“This is a message to me via email, coming late in the night about a week ago. Thought it was some prank until I heard about Mr. Kim’s trial.”
Dr. Handable is sworn in. Mr. Kim is removed from the witnessed. He sits along side his attorney, Antonio Biggs, waiting for what is to follow. He leans over to Mr. Biggs, informing him how he used the computer in his office to send this message to the doctor. “You understand, I couldn’t tell you because information must be shared with the prosecutor for preparation to dispute. Trent was napping. I had worn him down by forcing him to let me be me.” Antonio Biggs looks at the man he thought he knew, a man that didn’t scheme, didn’t lie, didn’t do anything to harm a fly. Nothing ever suggested something like this. All of this must be an act!
Dr. Handable’s voice is loud, taking over any other though now in Mr. Biggs mind. “By the time this email is read, it is my hope that the secret past of Robin Kim is now public. I had a twin at birth, an incomplete twin physically attached to me with its own brain intertwined with mine. The doctors couldn’t take all of the second brain out. Doing so would have destroyed the whole being of the body you see me present in today. Thus, the doctors did their best in killing off the extra brain, realizing the second brain interfered with motor functions of the my complete brain. All that could be disconnected and destroyed was. The altar ego, the other brain, learned to compensate and renew some of the damage, and retained knowledge and memories! Thus, two brains in one body. The man who, hopefully, ran into the court room is one of the original doctors that helped in the surgery. I, Robin Kim, was able to contact Dr. Handable, without the knowledge of Trent Kim. I, Robin Kim knew when Trent slept, taking advantage of those times. A week after the death of my wife, and others, I came to realize what my blackouts were. Knowing what I was facing as I watched from a distance as Trent took over more and more each day, I knew keeping myself unbeknownst to him was best until I had the willpower to take my life back, regardless if I did jail time or not. I also knew my best time to strike was during the trial because of Trent’s hatred from lawyers. Dr. Handable can now explain anything you need to know about my twin, known as Trent currently, but was once called Kong. But before he faces such questions, I must ask you, the jury, the listeners in the courtroom, all officials, 'Whoever said Two Heads Are Better Than One?'”
The prosecuting attorney approaches Mr. Kim. “So, Mr. Kim, isn’t it true that no one saw you at Toe Joe’s Jam & Celery the morning of April 15th, where you said you were grocery shopping for exotic foods needed for that nights business party, the same morning your boss came up missing, the same morning your fiancé was found drowned in your pool, the same morning the mailman crashed right after delivery your mail?”
“Yes. I mean no. I mean—”
“Which is it Mr. Kim?”
The docile, quiet, wringing hands, mild manner clerk breathes deep. The man whom broke into tears when nervous or under a great deal of pressure loses his composer, coming out booming; booming like a gorilla poked in his cage: “MR. CROMBAG, YOU’LL NOT ADDRESS MY BROTHER AS SUCH!”
Mr. Crombag backs off, but not before the face of the defendant plunges into Mr. Crombag’s nose, blinding him with close proximity. He looks at the demeanor of the man sitting on the witness stand. Mr. Kim is different. His face scowls; frightening to look at. The scowl has a knowingly smile behind it. His posture is now straight, not slumped, a confident person full of sureness, strength, and power. The man who now sits on the witness stand isn’t Mr. Kim but a person who takes Mr. Kim’s body at will.
Mr. Crombag has heard of things like this before when a calm, normal man just goes wacko. “Who are you?” he squints his eyes and dares to near the new witness.
The voice is rough, a gargling sound, gruff like a dog growling through a bark: “The man who protects my brother.”
“Do you have a name?”
“YOU’LL ADDRESS ME AS SIR!”
The judge pounds his gavel. “Mr. Kim, you’ll not be hostile towards Mr. Crombag.”
The unknown looks at the judge, calmly, and with the same voice speaks softly: “I am not Mr. Kim, Your Honor. I will,” the word is backed by gritted teeth, “be addressed with respect if,” his eyebrows raise and a finger points up, “you want answers.” And quickly he adds, pointing his finger towards Mr. Crombag, “You no longer attack my brother.”
The judge glares at the character before him. They stare. The message is clear: This is my court, you’ll not dictate.
“Of course, Your Honor, I apologize for my temper. Just don’t attack my brother,” he glares at Mr. Crombag with a heavier warning. The eyes speak Death.
“Carry on, Mr. Crombag.”
Mr. Crombag nods to the judge. “Thank you, Your Honor.”
“I will ask again,” with a look from the unknown, and a low growl, from the witness stand, “. . . sir,” Mr. Crombag heavily sighs, “what are you named?”
“My name is Trent.”
“Trent, will you allow Mr. Kim to return?”
“No. My brother need not deal with you any further. You will be dealing with me. Is that clear?”
Very clear. Mr. Crombag has to think quickly about his next move. This was unexpected. He paces a bit before Trent, tapping his fingers upon his leg. What does he know about dual personalities? Nothing. He would have to play this out by instinct. I just hope it doesn’t get me murdered. And then he looks over to the District Attorney. He is making no move to ask for a recess. In fact, the man looks like he is in serious shock, still. Mr. Crombag looks at the judge. His expression isn’t identifiable—is it shock like the rest of us? This is a judge that doesn’t rattle; this is why he chose him; better chance of getting something done.
“Trent, why does Mr. Kim need your protection?”
“Because of people like you. He’ll say anything to keep conflict out of his life, just like that dumb bitch that was making him dress like she wanted.”
“Who is this dumb bitch?”
“Toto May.”
“Trent, sir, did you kill Toto May?”
“Not actually. As Kim Kim turned away frustrated after trying to say he didn’t like the outfit she wanted him to wear that night for best appearance with the boss, I stuck out my foot so she’d fall into the pool while jerking the chair from out under her as she stood up to follow him. She hit her head on the way down, made no noise. Kim Kim kept on going, knowing nothing. I wasn’t going to tell him.”
“And the mailman, Jarmen King?”
Trent sits silently.
“Answer the man,” the judge leans over, as if to whisper into the defendant’s ear.
No attempt is made by Trent to open his mouth.
The judge keeps his eyes upon the Mr. Kim. “This is my court, and respect is two ways, not one way; thus, you will answer the man Mr. Kim. Do not intimidate me.”
Trent stares out into the court room. Growling.
“Bailiff!” the Judge calls.
The answer comes immediately, “I didn’t do that one.”
“You mean Mr. Kim did?”
“No. We would be dead if Mr. King hadn’t been there before us. Mr. King was a good man. The letter wasn’t supposed to blow up until I called mom. The letter was programmed to Robin’s signal coming through, no one else's.”
“Who wrote the letter? Sir?”
“Kim Kim did most of it. But I had to tell mom I was still alive. I knew she would get the letter in two days; I would give her a day to think, in which she would call Dr. Handable to get rid of me. I know she wouldn’t let the letter out of sight.”
Still alive?
Even the judge straightens in his seat.
“So Mr. King was inadvertently killed. You didn’t get the signal set quite right, the mini bomb exploding when his phone went off?”
“I supposed so. I felt badly about that.”
“So, there are people who know about you? Does Mr. Kim?”
“They did; they do. But I was weak for a long time after mom sent us here for surgery. Something was wrong with Kim Kim.”
“Where is here?”
Trent doesn’t reply. Mr. Crombag doesn’t pursue. He then looks back at the District Attorney, Antonio Biggs. He shrugs his shoulders.
“Trent, sir, may I speak to Mr. Kim? I promise to not attack him.”
“No. Lawyers lie.” Trent crinkles his eyes right at Mr. Biggs. Biggs isn’t watching his client because he is too busy writing on his tablet.
Very well. No one is objecting to this, I’m going to go on full blast.
“Trent. Why do you think Mr. Kim had surgery?”
“Something wrong with his head.”
“How old were you when this surgery took place?”
Trent puckers his lips in and then speaks thoughtfully. “About two. We hadn’t been toilet trained for long.”
He actually wants me to believe he can remember that far back? A handful of people may remember when they are two.
“What happened after the surgery?”
“Kim Kim was able to move but I couldn’t. I could sense all Kim Kim did; could see and hear some things, but limitedly; could feel Kim Kim was a little lost, too, so I vowed to get better, for him. It was difficult.”
Mr. Crombag comes closer to the body of Mr. Kim and stares into those eyes glazed by contempt. “You keep calling Mr. Kim, Kim Kim. How come, sir?”
“That was his name. Not this Robin name. Mom wanted him to sound more United States of American.”
“How is it you chose the name Trent? It is a European name, sir.”
Trent became tense, his face narrowing along with his eyes. Aha! He had hit a nerve. He didn’t like his name.
“I don’t remember any names from our home country. I couldn’t call myself Kim, could I?” Trent snorts, as if he had won a battle.
“No. I guess you couldn’t.”
“Besides,” Trent continues, “Trent is a strong name. Is there something wrong with it?”
Perfect. Strike now. “Yes. It doesn’t mean Victory, as my name Victor.”
“HOW DARE YOU! I’M GREAT!” Trent stands and lifts his fist in the air, roaring, bringing them down onto the banister.
“MR. KIM,” Judge Be Leigh pounds his gavel, “You. Will. Sit. Down. No More Outbreaks!”
Trent sits. Mr. Kim’s face puffs and reddens, his hands clutch the banister.
“Mr. Kim,” Mr. Crombag changes strategies, “have you ever known of Trent?”
“I Am Trent!”
“Mr. Kim, why is it that your brother defends you?”
“He doesn’t know I’m alive!”
“How can Trent be in your brain without your knowledge, and yet he knows all about you?”
“I shut off the memory when I do the work.”
“Mr. Kim, why do you allow another to do your dirty work?”
“HE DOESN’T!”
The guards are right there before Mr. Kim’s body lifts over the banister to strike at Mr. Crombag.
Quickly, Mr. Crombag goes to the judge. Mr. King joins him. “We’ve gone this far. Restrain him. I want to finish this. This can’t be real; the mandatory psychological testing done every month by his company couldn’t miss this.”
“If Mr. King approves.”
“Very much. This will put in a plea of insanity.”
Mr. Crombag smiles brilliantly. There isn’t going to be a new trial for an insanity plea. It is ending here. He goes back to the defendant. He looks at the body of Mr. Kim as they restrain him.
“Whom am I addressing?”
Mr. Kim jerks at the cuffs placed on his arms and legs. Obviously it is Trent. His confinement takes away some of his fight as the realization that he is going to harm no one comes to him.
“Your name is Robin Kim. You are named after the bird with a red breast to show off. They fly away.”
“My name is Trent!”
“Trent is nothing. Trent deceives his brother. Trent lies to his brother. Trent hurts his brother.”
The man growls and jerks, again, the muscles bulge from his forearms.
“Trent is imaginary. Trent doesn’t exist. Trent is an excuse to destroy because Robin can’t, just like the bird, because Robin can’t accept his weakness.”
Mr. Kim’s face is nearly purple. The man is holding his breath, and covering his ears best he can between his upraised arms.
“Trent is a coward, makes Robin a coward because he hides in Robin as Robin hides in Trent. Robin is afraid of Trent.”
Mr. Kim keeps his hands up with his body bent forward, allowing him to plug his ears. He doesn’t move from this position.
“I will win because I have the strong name and your real name is weak. I’m Victor, victorious; you’re Robin, the bird that flies away.”
Mr. Kim straightens, struggling for breath, his eyes rolling up into his head. The whites are clearly visible. His face is purple and red; his throat instinctively grasps for air that just isn’t there, clutching for air in a the space filled with tense aspiration of a crowd, a crowd that swallows the air for their own lungs. The body collapses to the floor, banging into the banister before rolling down the two steps on the side, flopping wildly. A medic is called. An observer from the courtroom comes forward as the words ring out, “Call 911. He’s seizing.”
One second passes, then two, and before the third second strikes, Mr. Kim is sitting up looking dazed and confused, but also spouting words in a calm voice: “You will not have control of me Trent; you were erased because you could not function; I was saved to be complete, to be whole; you will not take this away; I will not be weak; You will not make me do what I do not want; I will tell them the truth; I will admit to what has been done through my body by your brain, the brain that I will rid myself of; do you hear me Trent; do you understand me Trent; I am no longer a patsy to you, to anyone; I was a fool; I have found the way to stand up for me; I never needed you; don’t use me as an excuse to do as you please; you were never suited for society, you are not suited for society; I am done with your presence; you will no longer force me into darkness; I will no longer hide from you to do what is right; do you hear me Robin; do you?”
“Order, order,” the Judge pounds his gavel hard and in rhythm with the breaths of the crowd “oh”ing as if watching a magician do a trick.
“Yes, sir,” Mr. Kim stands slowly after spewing his intentions. “Trent will no longer interfere, you have my word.”
“Is this some game, Mr. Kim?”
“No Your Honor. Please call me Mr. Kim, or Trent.” Mr. Kim takes the witness seat. As he sits, a man from the back of the court runs forward, the doors to the court room booming against the wall as they strike, the man waving a paper, yelling, “Please, sir, allow me to come forward, allow me to speak!”
The judge, wanting some clarity, demands to know who this man is, demands to know if either lawyers know about this paper, if someone is attempting to make a circus out of his court, spurting everything that comes to mind. After some time, Judge Be Leigh calms into his finals words, “Will this paper give evidence to Mr. Kim’s well-being, seeing you are the doctor, one of several doctors, who performed the initial surgery that Mr. Kim mentioned.”
“Yes, Your Honor, this paper will. I even brought in my hard drive to prove that it wasn’t fabricated.”
“Hard drive?”
“This is a message to me via email, coming late in the night about a week ago. Thought it was some prank until I heard about Mr. Kim’s trial.”
Dr. Handable is sworn in. Mr. Kim is removed from the witnessed. He sits along side his attorney, Antonio Biggs, waiting for what is to follow. He leans over to Mr. Biggs, informing him how he used the computer in his office to send this message to the doctor. “You understand, I couldn’t tell you because information must be shared with the prosecutor for preparation to dispute. Trent was napping. I had worn him down by forcing him to let me be me.” Antonio Biggs looks at the man he thought he knew, a man that didn’t scheme, didn’t lie, didn’t do anything to harm a fly. Nothing ever suggested something like this. All of this must be an act!
Dr. Handable’s voice is loud, taking over any other though now in Mr. Biggs mind. “By the time this email is read, it is my hope that the secret past of Robin Kim is now public. I had a twin at birth, an incomplete twin physically attached to me with its own brain intertwined with mine. The doctors couldn’t take all of the second brain out. Doing so would have destroyed the whole being of the body you see me present in today. Thus, the doctors did their best in killing off the extra brain, realizing the second brain interfered with motor functions of the my complete brain. All that could be disconnected and destroyed was. The altar ego, the other brain, learned to compensate and renew some of the damage, and retained knowledge and memories! Thus, two brains in one body. The man who, hopefully, ran into the court room is one of the original doctors that helped in the surgery. I, Robin Kim, was able to contact Dr. Handable, without the knowledge of Trent Kim. I, Robin Kim knew when Trent slept, taking advantage of those times. A week after the death of my wife, and others, I came to realize what my blackouts were. Knowing what I was facing as I watched from a distance as Trent took over more and more each day, I knew keeping myself unbeknownst to him was best until I had the willpower to take my life back, regardless if I did jail time or not. I also knew my best time to strike was during the trial because of Trent’s hatred from lawyers. Dr. Handable can now explain anything you need to know about my twin, known as Trent currently, but was once called Kong. But before he faces such questions, I must ask you, the jury, the listeners in the courtroom, all officials, 'Whoever said Two Heads Are Better Than One?'”
1/26/10
“my rainbow died”
Published 12/20/2013 on Cliterature.
http://www.cliteraturejournal.com/dawncunninghammotherho.html
for Kyla
the pretty blurred colors
rain through the glass
make an unwashable spot
on a little girl’s toe
she dances with the colors
while a fist attempts
to grasp the aired colors
lifting her shirt to have
a rainbow smile
smudged across her belly
filling the buttonhole with laughter
today a wave
yesterday a wiggle
tomorrow . . .
“my rainbow died”
she begs papa to bring it back
at ten a.m.
on the hardwood floor
That's Why I Hate White People
(
This poem I am sharing with you is based on an incident that occurred while I worked as a bus assistant.)
she spoke with the bobbing-sway
of the head from side to side, the chin
jetting out as a chicken’s strut just at the end
of the line, while a small blonde girl
ran from her door
to get on the bus. The next day the same:
That’s why I hate white people,
as her eyes rolled, the corns
in her hair flopped about when the blonde
wore the same shirt as yesterday, ran out
of the house without her coat
on, with socks and shoes in hand.
That’s why I hate white people,
I heard her say
again, the grin gritty on filed teeth
as another said “don’t they clean
the yard, wash their windows, put
their bikes in the garage;” the blonde’s tummy
growled ferociously; “didn’t
your mother fix you breakfast?”
That’s why I hate white people,
escaped those lips a last time, before seeing
administration when the blonde
girl tripped and put a hole in the knee
That’s why I hate. . . .
she spoke with the bobbing-sway
of the head from side to side, the chin
jetting out as a chicken’s strut just at the end
of the line, while a small blonde girl
ran from her door
to get on the bus. The next day the same:
That’s why I hate white people,
as her eyes rolled, the corns
in her hair flopped about when the blonde
wore the same shirt as yesterday, ran out
of the house without her coat
on, with socks and shoes in hand.
That’s why I hate white people,
I heard her say
again, the grin gritty on filed teeth
as another said “don’t they clean
the yard, wash their windows, put
their bikes in the garage;” the blonde’s tummy
growled ferociously; “didn’t
your mother fix you breakfast?”
That’s why I hate white people,
escaped those lips a last time, before seeing
administration when the blonde
girl tripped and put a hole in the knee
That’s why I hate. . . .
1/16/10
4 Ways to Die
1.
In the basement
the gulley of the hospital
a corner is tucked
Nuclear Medicine
Hidden away deep in
to protect the masses
unlike me and those few others who happen to wander
down the wrong
hall of the building
Once trapped no one escapes
without a poke
without a puncture
without being injected It is said
the amount is small
so small that it can’t harm you Then why
all the cross bones
and skulls
People walk with IVs
dripping from arms
taped to a wrist Mine
covered by a stretch cloth
so as not to make me queasy when seeing Isotopes run
rapid
through my liver into my gallbladder
slowly to my intestines An hour
of pictures and asking
what cells am I losing Is my brain being damaged This stuff can’t be directed
to follow one
path
One way in and nowhere
out my body absorbing
it slowly I hear a machine
pumping
like a well
like a heart while I wonder
who’s trapped in there
2.
Few learn silence
Through the trap of thorax before sea level;
all too many know
silence
like an inescapable scream.
Have you kept
silence to
eat the intestines, the liver,
the bronchiole tubes; have you buried
silence in a casket with a face full of fist to be reborn
again and again?
3.
Remembering
giant flakes that fall under
a black sky of sparkles
where the moon was blotted
and snowflakes absorbed light
like speckles of aluminous paint
that falls from a wall
the way nature does it the only way
the way the mind sees
the path from the dog’s chain
to the back door in snow’s dark, and all the while,
while writing this, being buried in the downfall
—the bright pains my eyes.
4.
a. A thing that he says disturbs me,
churns my insides.
“I’d rather be cleaning stalls,”
as he walks from the kitchen;
“No one cleans up after themselves.” He told me
when he quit work
everything would change. Children
would obey and clean.
b. There’s noise coming
from two bedrooms, a living room,
and the dining room—t.v.
or radio, or yelling; children
picking at an arm, a leg,
two dogs nibbling, gnawing, fighting
to be alpha,
a head and my gut talking to me,
but I don’t understand it; often
I can’t hear it—even in quiet.
c. Barium gets stuck
in my chest, and there is no gag
bag, only this cup of thick white
and an aroma lurking of rotten
raspberry, or. . . something; I can’t finish
and they say must.
d. Two grown women
in the same house don’t fit,
and neither do niece and aunt
only a few years apart. My mouth
agape hearing “I hate you;”
“You’re ugly,” sharing
dining room, kitchen,
and living room.
In the basement
the gulley of the hospital
a corner is tucked
Nuclear Medicine
Hidden away deep in
to protect the masses
unlike me and those few others who happen to wander
down the wrong
hall of the building
Once trapped no one escapes
without a poke
without a puncture
without being injected It is said
the amount is small
so small that it can’t harm you Then why
all the cross bones
and skulls
People walk with IVs
dripping from arms
taped to a wrist Mine
covered by a stretch cloth
so as not to make me queasy when seeing Isotopes run
rapid
through my liver into my gallbladder
slowly to my intestines An hour
of pictures and asking
what cells am I losing Is my brain being damaged This stuff can’t be directed
to follow one
path
One way in and nowhere
out my body absorbing
it slowly I hear a machine
pumping
like a well
like a heart while I wonder
who’s trapped in there
2.
Few learn silence
Through the trap of thorax before sea level;
all too many know
silence
like an inescapable scream.
Have you kept
silence to
eat the intestines, the liver,
the bronchiole tubes; have you buried
silence in a casket with a face full of fist to be reborn
again and again?
3.
Remembering
giant flakes that fall under
a black sky of sparkles
where the moon was blotted
and snowflakes absorbed light
like speckles of aluminous paint
that falls from a wall
the way nature does it the only way
the way the mind sees
the path from the dog’s chain
to the back door in snow’s dark, and all the while,
while writing this, being buried in the downfall
—the bright pains my eyes.
4.
a. A thing that he says disturbs me,
churns my insides.
“I’d rather be cleaning stalls,”
as he walks from the kitchen;
“No one cleans up after themselves.” He told me
when he quit work
everything would change. Children
would obey and clean.
b. There’s noise coming
from two bedrooms, a living room,
and the dining room—t.v.
or radio, or yelling; children
picking at an arm, a leg,
two dogs nibbling, gnawing, fighting
to be alpha,
a head and my gut talking to me,
but I don’t understand it; often
I can’t hear it—even in quiet.
c. Barium gets stuck
in my chest, and there is no gag
bag, only this cup of thick white
and an aroma lurking of rotten
raspberry, or. . . something; I can’t finish
and they say must.
d. Two grown women
in the same house don’t fit,
and neither do niece and aunt
only a few years apart. My mouth
agape hearing “I hate you;”
“You’re ugly,” sharing
dining room, kitchen,
and living room.
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