HMS Moira

She blew in a day early,
A vessel tall and proud.
From across the world
With sails unfurled
She met the cheering crowd.

My Love had traveled on that ship
With other precious cargo.
A fateful freight
To abrogate
A long and cruel embargo.

Though liquor My Love had rarely touched,
A lady prim and prude,
We sought libation
In celebration
Of this end to solitude.

From the frigate to the shore
Clippers brought both rum and rye
To ingratiate
And satiate
Land and lips so dry.

The rum had put My Love at ease
To reveal her penetralia.
Though she would mind
When I, in kind,
Exposed my genitalia.

Below, the streets were filled with mirth.
The throngs were warbling tunes.
Lascivious
And oblivious
To hordes of marauding dragoons.

Though danger was approaching,
The gentry were now feral.
They hollered and clapped
And proceeded to tap
Each and every barrel.

While spirits on the battlefield
Can make a valiant soldier,
Before the dawn
The rum was gone,
And we were all hungover.

The sentinels were in a stupor
Among whom I was one.
We signaled in vain
And all would be slain
Before the day was done.

So heed you well this warning
From my post beyond the grave:
Beware what you do
That you may eschew
All that which doth deprave.

For our bounty did come early,
Bringing joy and then remorse.
What caused delight
Became our blight
An aquatic Trojan horse.

Homecoming

The sun was setting behind the hills, and the glare revealed the oily residues of passengers past on tinted panes of plexiglass. The intermittent ka-thump of the train cars and the passing of telephone poles through my field of vision were a reminder that I was moving toward something I didn't want to face. 

The funeral was set for tomorrow morning. I had no idea how I was supposed to give a proper eulogy for a man with so much ugliness. I wondered if anyone would be there and if I should even bother showing up. 

I grabbed my duffel bag and suitcase just as a shrill voice came over the P.A.: “Stony Creek station.” 

Despite the baggage, I didn’t mind the long walk through town. The sodium street lights flickered on to a dim glow as I came toward my old house. After about a minute, they gained full intensity, bathing the street in peachy light. 

At the porch steps, I pulled a hidden key from under a fake rock, made my way inside, and turned on the hallway light. 

Walking into the living room, I glanced over at the rocker. I imagined Ma there getting lost in her sitcoms and variety shows, because real life didn't come with laugh tracks and prompted applause. Pale blue light flashed across her expressionless face. 

The stairs groaned with the pressure and release of each step as I slowly plodded upward. My room was pretty much as I'd left it. A simple, scratched-up desk and wooden chair sat by the window, and the twin bed mattress without a frame was tucked by the wall under the slanted ceiling, which had taped to it a faded Led Zeppelin poster. 

I remembered Dad bursting through the door with unmitigated fury over something I had (or hadn't) done. He threw me against the wall, and with his hands encircling my neck, I started to black out. I could still hear Ma wailing through sobs, "Stop it, Hank! You're going to kill him!" But he couldn't hear her. His eyes revealed a kind of crazed, adrenaline-fueled trance. The smell of whiskey hit me just as I lost consciousness. 

The next day, Ma seemed oblivious. I didn't understand how she could just go about pretending that nothing had happened--like we lived in some kind of "Leave It to Beaver" fantasy world. "Let me fix you some eggs, Honey," she said. Yet, I suppose it was more than eggs she was trying to fix. It was our lives as well, as if food would fill these widening emotional chasms. 

I grabbed a flashlight from off the desk and climbed out of the window and onto the porch roof as I had on so many nights previous--those nights when Dad was shouting or Ma was crying and I just needed to escape. 

Across the street was Caroline Connors’ house. She was the only good thing in this beater town, and the only reason I could have had for staying. She had a way of ensnaring herself in relationships with older guys who treated her badly. Maybe they were stand-ins for her absent father, giving her just enough validation but no more than she thought she deserved. One night while sitting on the roof, I took a flashlight and pointed it at her window, waving my hand in front of the beam as if to signal. She came over and climbed up to my perch where we talked for hours, both sharing our need to get away from our lives in this town. 

I wondered where she was and what she was up to this evening--thinking she was probably away somewhere married to some guy she couldn't stand. I hated that I had these thoughts--resurging crests of jealousy--but my mind just couldn't help but go there. Just then it caught my eye. From across the street a light was flashing from a bedroom window: Our secret signal. My heart leapt into my throat.

Noćnik

Great War Island, at the confluence of the Danube and Sava rivers, was so named because of its strategic importance in both the defense and siege of Belgrade. Officially, it was uninhabited, but there were a few of us who summered there in shanties--tending our gardens in solitude just a few hundred meters outside of the old city. Hidden behind a dense woodland, it might as well have been miles away. It had been a mistake to come here in early spring when the night air was still bitterly cold and there would be no one near to hear my screams. 

My heart was racing and sweat beaded up across my brow. It was time, and I was frantic. I knew that, at any moment, it would come for me--just like it had late at night when I was a child. 

Belgrade itself was no stranger to recurring nightmares. Countless times, the city had been raided and leveled by marauders, violated and passed about from Celts to Romans to Byzantines and Franks, juggled between Austrians and Turks. For ravenous, warmongering men, she was an object to be conquered and ravaged. 

Over the centuries, the walls were fortified and held for a time. But while they were keeping out Ottoman invaders, they also kept in pestilence and famine. 

In the cabin, the curtains, like swollen bubos, inflated into the candle-lit room with the brisk outdoor breeze. I pushed them aside and rushed to close the shutters, which I slammed and bolted in place. I ran to the door and, after fumbling for several seconds with my skeleton key, managed to lock it. I slid a chair toward it, screeching across the bare wooden floor, and propped it under the knob. 

At my bed I made the sign of the cross on my pillow before turning it over. This was the Serbian ritual for keeping the demon or mora away passed down over generations. I remembered how my mother taught it to me one sleepless night when I was a small child. The thought gave me some momentary comfort. But then the candle suddenly went out. 

I dove under the covers, shaking violently. It was dark and silent except for the chattering of my teeth. Then I saw it. A green light came in through the keyhole. It flowed in like a vapor at first and then began to take the shape of a luminescent moth. It approached the bed slowly growing and transforming into a large hairy beast. 

All the while, there was a weight building on my chest, and I began to struggle for each breath. Gnarly limbs grew up from the floor and tied my wrists back against the bedpost as I writhed with terror and began to sob. 

Suddenly, I could hear a woman's voice. It seemed to be coming from inside of me, reverberating through me. 

"You can change how it ends, Danijela," it said. "You MUST change how it ends." 

The mora hovered over me, approaching my face with breath like burning sulfur. It hissed and snarled and bore stiletto-like teeth. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. This isn't real, I thought to myself. I have the power to end this. No sooner had I thought it than a knife appeared in my hand, and with a single thrust, I broke my arm free and plunged the blade into the beast. It shrieked and shattered into gravel and dust. The viny limb binding my left arm loosened and fell as it turned to yarn. 

The voice returned. 

"Now, on the count of three you will awaken from your trance." 

"1... 2... 3." 

***** 

The room was bright. It took some time to adjust my eyes and acclimate myself to my new surroundings. I was lying on a rust-colored teak sofa, and there was a table by my feet holding an antique stained-glass lamp and a box of tissues. From somewhere, on a clock radio perhaps, Chopin's Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 was playing faintly. 

"You were very brave today, Danijela." 

Dr. Obrenovic's voice was soft and soothing, but as I looked down at my still trembling hands, I could not ignore the bruised and swollen wrists that met them. They were reminders that the horrors of the past could not easily be overcome.

Fashion Faux Pas

The detectives, a thirty-something female with long dark hair and an older man with grey hair and mustache, came out of the elevator carrying covered coffee cups. They flashed their badges and pushed open the glass door to the studio without pausing their conversation.

"Don't get me wrong, I love her, but she spouts the rankest mash of drivel and poppycock."

"Poppycock? Who are you?"

"What's wrong with poppycock? My grandfather says poppycock."

"I think you've just answered your own question."

"Oh, hush." She mumbled sheepishly. An attractive woman, she had a slightly gaunt face with high cheekbones and captivating brown eyes. "You know, I wanted to be a model when I was a teenager."

"What made you change your mind?"

"It was just a phase I grew out of, I guess. I don't know. It all just seemed so..." She was searching for the right word. "Vapid."

The receptionist was filing her nails and pretending not to notice them. "All the way back and to the right," she droned without looking up.

Inside of the fashion studio the walls, floor and furniture were all bland varieties of white, egg shell and beige. This was by design. It was the blank canvas over which everything else came to life. Against it, the unadorned mannequins practically disappeared into their surroundings while others displayed vibrant, multi-colored garments. To the left were large windows looking out over Madison Avenue. To the right were giant rolls of fabric in a plethora of hues and patterns. On the far wall, assorted sketches done by colored pencil were posted neatly in rows. They were of female figures in various dresses and gowns, commanding in their presence, always with their arms on their hips. Some stood straight while others had one hip lowered seductively.

"Look at these photos." Higgins was looking at glossy pictures of fashion models he found on a work desk. "Would it kill them to smile once in a while?"

"Smiling is uncool. Unfashionable." Rodriguez couldn't help but smirk as she said it.

"This isn't Moscow. I mean, do they have to project such..."

"I think the word you're looking for is ennui."

"On-what?"

"Apathy. Boredom."

"I swear, Rodriguez, when they assigned you as my partner, they should have issued me a dictionary instead of a gun. Lord knows I'd use it more often."

"This way detectives." A uniformed officer approached. His face was sickly pale, and he seemed relieved to see them. Clearly, he was not used to the sight and smell of not-so-fresh corpses.

He directed them to an office with a placard displaying the name Xavier Leroux. Higgins hung back to question the officer, while Rodriguez went inside.

The medical examiner had already arrived. "It looks like the body has been here for about two days. The positioning and ligature marks around the neck suggest that he was attacked from behind," he added.

"By the way," he was looking at Rodriguez, "navy is NOT your color, detective."

"Thanks for noticing," she shot back.

Higgins came in and handed her a file folder. "This may be our perp. He's an up-and-coming star in the fashion world. Camera loves him, apparently. He and Leroux were seen having an argument last week, and guess who didn't show up for the photo shoot this morning?"

"Interesting." She looked over the file with glamour shots paper-clipped to a bio.

"Quit drooling."

"Shut up." She tried to hide her embarrassment.  "Alright. We need to interview anyone with a connection to our vic. And let's put out an APB for..."

******

SAINT MICHEL, Florian Laurent. The letters, once engulfed in flame, shriveled and disappeared into blackness. He turned the card slightly and let the flame run across the picture, an emotionless visage of vanity and emptiness. He held it up and, just as the intense heat began to singe his thumb and index finger, threw it into an urn. The last remaining connection to his former life smoldered and disintegrated. He picked up a broom that was propped against a wall of jagged stone and brushed toward the corner sweep-hole long, curled locks of golden hair.

The quiescence was punctuated by the sudden ringing of a gong. Once. He let the sound wash over and through him as the higher pitches receded, leaving a low bass that too eventually faded. Twice. He put away the broom, put on his sandals, and instinctively looked for a mirror before catching himself. Thrice. He left the room, descended the spiral staircase of a stone tower, and entered the courtyard to join the converging swarm--an anonymous face among a sea of orange robes.

Out of Balance or Prelude to a Fall

A man emerged from the bathroom stall. He rolled down his sleeve, concealing the bruised skin where several needles had been lodged, and made his exit. Dark circles surrounded his eyes and his shirt was tucked in only in the front. It was a fashion faux-pas that one might call a dress shirt mullet.

As he pulled the door open he was hit by a toxic miasma of flashing lights and pulsing sound. The electronic chimes and dings, the rustling of tokens and sporadic mirth were an assault on the senses, and he felt an urgent need to abscond.

A couple blocks from the casino, the streets were empty. They were littered with potholes, and tufts of grass grew through cracks in the pavement.

He closed his eyes and was briefly transported. The same street was now brick and cobblestone, bustling with opportunistic vendors and snake oil salesmen. In horse-drawn carriages, mustachioed and monocled European royalty or be-spectacled industrialists were being chauffeured about. In front of bars and inns, young boys and girls solicited patrons for their respective establishments in the hopes of bringing in tourist dollars and earning a modest commission.

He opened his eyes as a dead man walking--a ghost in a ghost town. The only sounds came from a hanging sign that broke from its chain on one end, waved violently in the wind, and slapped against a wall of concrete.

Before long he arrived at the observation deck where he took in the view. He drifted away again.

The land glaciated and thawed with the passing of seasons and epochs.

The sun swung from east to west as shadows did the opposite. Clouds raced across the sky. The trees bloomed, greened, yellowed and disrobed. All the while a mighty cataract ate through layers of stone and pushed its way across the landscape. It carved out the gorge where the power vista would be. It made a sharp turn and left behind the whirlpool rapids as it continued its recession. As it arrived to more or less its current location, he looked out over the glistening waters at the bottom of the gorge and at the roaring falls with their now unrestricted flow.

And as Niagara falls, it also rises--in tiny ionized droplets, a levitating mist painted by a neon-trimmed skyline.

Such powerful forces contrast the fragility of life--a state of balance that is the product of perpetual imbalance. What is breathing if not a constant switch between a surplus and lack of oxygen? A series of breaths. An alternating current. A chemical stasis. As a sound wave is but a series of crests and troughs, these illusions that we call equilibria are just constantly changing states, averaging out over a duration of arbitrary length. Forward and back went the dance of time.

Sometimes the pendulum swings too far. It comes back as a wrecking ball.

To his right was Nikola Tesla. On his left--Frederick Law Olmsted. There could be no balance between the exploiter and the preservationist. There was a spanning between the two, but to no one's satisfaction. The chasm was too large.

He got up on the railing of the bridge and slowly put one foot in front of the other. Muscles in his body that he never knew he had were making tiny adjustments to keep him balanced. They did this unconsciously, just as the heart beats without anyone having to give it the slightest thought. Beside him on tightropes were the Blondins and Farinis. They crossed carrying others on their backs, with wheelbarrows and bicycles, and with peach baskets strapped to their feet, trying to top the latest stunt. Crowds gasped and cheered from the overlooks.

He stood on the railing of the bridge with arms outstretched, leaned back, and let his body go limp. He was only the latest sacrifice to the Great Spirit of Niagara.

Mosaic

Eirlys shrieked with excitement as a gust of wind liberated several helicopters from the limbs of an old maple. She chased one as it whirled and glided through the air. It landed on her shoulder and clung to her white flowery dress and provoked a fit of giggles in the process. She was entering that critical age at which she was beginning to learn where she ended and where the rest of the universe began, creating objects and drawing lines in the world around her through the acquisition of language.

"Kitty!" she shouted as her attention was diverted by the approach of an orange tabby. Scampering towards the furry grail, her legs could no longer keep up with her momentum, and she stumbled, hurtled forward, and planted her chin onto the grassy ground.

Dylan, a locally acclaimed artist, was but fifty feet from his daughter up on a ladder where he had been working on his masterpiece. Upon seeing her trip, he refrained from calling out or running to her and instead watched closely to assess her status. She was fighting back tears that were less the product of physical pain than her growing frustration with her worldly constraints. She defiantly got up and started again at a slower pace--her desire to no longer be an entity separate from the cat unwavering.

The girl's father, now sufficiently assured of his little daughter's continued well-being shifted his focus back to his work. He had always believed that artistic endeavors were a window to the divine, and he too had a need to make sense of the world around him and his place therein. "If we see the world in tesserae, do gods see it in tesseracts?" he mused. This made him think of his own limitations.

Before long, after the cat lost interest in her--or she with it--Eirlys trotted over to her father on the veranda. He glanced downward and playfully stuck his tongue out at her. She picked up a bright orange tile from a stack on the floor, reached up as high as she could, and placed it onto an unadorned spot on the wall. Lacking any adhesive to keep it in place, it fell to the ground and shattered. She was inconsolable.

The Secret Life of a Suburban Ninja

The man next to me on the bus has his headphones on. He thinks he is being discreet, mouthing the words to the songs on his playlist. But I am keenly aware of his actions and his presence. I can hear the whooshing and hissing fricatives and the sputtering stops, and it is unhinging. It's plucking at my nerves one by one. I can't wait to be free of this bilabial bebop, this velar vocal vacuity. Deliver me from these tees and esses marooned on islands of staccato sound.

"Amateur," I thought to myself.

Rewind to 1989. Seven years into my life and seven years before Monty Python taught me--by means of a VHS rental--the "importance of not being seen," I was learning something more useful: the importance of not being heard.

It was a normal summer late afternoon. Dad was asleep upstairs, recharging for another 12-hour night shift. Mom was resting on the couch, headachey from a busy day at work. The phone was taken off the hook with the earpiece muffled by a dish towel so that the outside world would not interrupt this delicate peace. It was in this environment that I learned to be inaudible. During such times, it was prescribed that my brother and I play in the basement. He with a DOS-loaded video game from a cassette or floppy disk and me with a set of Legos or Lincoln Logs, usually. There, we had a bit of a buffer to create a sort of a muted din. My mother would tell us to keep the door closed, but there was a trick to it. You see, it closed rather tightly so that when it was opened, it would make a loud screech. This was a problem since inevitably we would need to come upstairs to fetch something or use the bathroom. So we closed the door only partly until it wedged just a little against the door frame. When we came upstairs we would lean into it and hope that the resulting noise was only subtle.

There were other tricks I learned to employ as well. Walking on the balls of my feet helped cushion the impact of my weight on the floor. One learns quickly by trial and error where the floorboards most audibly creak and that it is best to keep as close to the walls as possible. A single false step elicits a Pavlovian response similar to the one that occurs when the buzzer is triggered in the popular children's game, Operation.

Unlike that vintage Milton Bradley diversion, however, my game of sneaking around the house had a lot of replay value. Every trip to fish something out of a drawer in my bedroom was a new quest. The act of entering or exiting the house undetected--best accomplished through the sliding door in the back whose friction was audible in a lower register than their squeaking, hinged counterparts--was an adventure in itself.

As it turns out, the modern home is filled with all kinds of potential auditory perils. Every door represents a slamming thud. Appliances can become the vile producers of shrill dings and beeps as their timers go off. Pots, pans and dishes clang as they are removed from cupboards. One must navigate with care amidst these snares.

If this kind of attitude and these behaviors seem strange to you, then count yourself lucky. For the kind of irrational sensitivity and hypervigilance with which I was born are not easily switched off. Imagine always being self-conscious but lacking in self-awareness--always looking with wariness at the things around you but never addressing the impact such thinking has on your feelings and moods. Now, imagine projecting those inward impositions onto others. The man on the bus for whom I have such great disdain, is not at all deserving of it. Yet, his attenuated lisping is all I can think about, amplified by my own obsessive mind.

I am happy to get off at the next stop, sliding off my seat, shuffling through the aisle and slipping out the doorway quickly and silently and not warranting even a fleeting glance from a fellow passenger.