This, to my sister.

Is he not free who rises with the sun

and cleanses himself of the night’s dreams?

To recall an epoch when he could dash

from the shadowed room to the one in which she slept, sound.

There, the shadow not so real as she…

and crawling into bed beside her

he sleeps the night into a day.

The sound of her breathing akin to a bay tide flowing.

She, a steel door set against the deluge of tormentors

who call for the little one beside her.

She holds them at bay though she sleeps unknowing of them.

The night lengthens; he presses himself close to her and uses her as a shield…

Morning comes and he greets it

as though to say, “I have come round to you again

at the turning of the earth.”

He kisses her as she yet sleeps and returns to his own bed,

for the morning is as young and beautiful as she.

Latest Chapter of “Whiteblood”

She stood in the doorway in front of the sun. Light bursting around her and she, the darkness within. In her the two were joined inseparably, light and shadow. Chaos set to rest in her.

She stood looking at him from the open door and he could see the pale glow of her eyes despite the fiery sunset behind her. He sat on the couch and waited for her to speak.

“Aren’t you coming?” she asked. Her voice reminded him of the quiet running water of a stream flowing forever into the night.

“I don’t know,” he said. He didn’t move from the couch.

“You won’t come because you think he needs you,” she said.

“I need him,” he said.

“You don’t know what you need anymore, Thomas.”

“You want me to abandon him? You want me to abandon our son?”

“I don’t know him. He isn’t of me.”

“How can you say that? He wants you to love him. I told him that you—”

“Who told you to tell him anything? How can I love what is not of me? I love you, Thomas. That is enough. Come with me.”

“I can’t,” he said.

“The sun won’t be up for much longer,” she said, looking back over her shoulder. “We used to walk the hill at sunset, you remember?”

“Yes,” he said. “I remember.”

She looked down at the floor, rubbed her hands together slowly, caressing.

“The devils inhabit these fields,” she said. “You’ve brought one of them into our home.”

“Don’t say that. It isn’t true and you know it. He’s only a boy for christ’s sake.”

“There is no christ in him or in you.”

“Go to hell.” He stood up and glared into the dying sun, the gleam of tears in his eyes.

“I have, Thomas. It is where I abide now. And you abide there with me as long as you keep yourself apart from me.”

“I’m not going with you,” he said. “I risked everything for you… and I’ll risk more for him. Soon you will see him as I do and then you will know.”

“You really believe… you really love him?”

“More than you can imagine,” he said.

She stood for a moment in thought. Her dark hair, flowing in buoyant waves down to her shoulders, shone red against the light of sunset.

“Then love him, Thomas,” she said finally. “And whatever you do, don’t lose him.”

“You said he was a devil. I heard you say it.”

“I still believe he is a devil,” she said. “All the same, hold on to him and don’t let go of him as you did me.”

“Do you still love me?” he asked her. He looked into the shadowed veil that guarded her face and saw her smile. She smiled as she had on the day that he’d asked her and she’d said yes.

“Always,” she said.

After a moment, he asked, “Are you certain that you know nothing? Nothing of him?”

“You are asking if it was I who brought him here, but I’ve already told you. He is not of me.”

“I thought that he was your gift to me,” he said, casting his eyes to the floor.

“I can give you nothing now,” she said. “You will not come.”

“No,” he said. “I will not come. Not yet. Not until I’ve finished here.”

“You’ll never be finished here, Thomas. I love you but I will not wait for you.”

“I waited for you. Too many ages to count I waited.”

“I’m sorry I could not be like you, Thomas. I tried so very hard to be like you.”

“You could have had whatever you wanted with me.”

“I had everything I wanted and more,” she said. “But the ages of this world were not meant to keep me as they have kept you.”

“Now that he has come it may be different,” he said.

“How do you explain his coming, Thomas? How do you explain any of it?”

“How do you explain me?” he said. “What I am? Like you, I do not remember the day that I was born. No one ever does, do they? He does not remember losing his shoes. He does not remember a thing but that he awoke in the night, alone in the cold under the oak.”

“And what do you remember?” she asked, “About yourself, I mean.”

“You used to always ask me that. The answer is the same now as it was then: ‘I am here.’”

Sun nigh submerged beneath the hill. Her shadow fading into the night. Her beauty encompassed in her darkness.

“Thomas,” she said, whispering now. “If I had stayed, we both know what would have happened. You would have been exposed. People would have seen and in seeing they would have come to know. My wish for you has always been that you would find peace.”

“Peace is not reserved for the likes of me.”

“But for the first time you know what is most important to you,” she said. “And you must fight to keep it. You must fight like the men who live and die fight. You too are a man with destiny in your heart. In that you may yet find peace.”

“My destiny has been withheld from me,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “Until now.”

He saw her fade into the shadows cast beneath the sunless sky. He saw the red barn in the doorway only it wasn’t red anymore, the trees hovering behind it like a host of black-robed cardinals all standing in rows. Then the room grew dark and no light shone on the horizon. Shadows laughed and danced about him until he too laughed and danced with them.

And at last sinking into their tepid embraces he found not the light of morning.

I dreamed…

This morning I dreamed that my friend held my head in the enclosure of his arms. I could not see him but I knew that he wept over me. I wanted to tell him so many things. He spoke my name and as he did, I awoke to feel his arms wither, dissolving into the air around me. He was gone and I lay there alone, thinking and wishing and hoping. I got up and went on with my day. Even now the dream haunts me.

Currently Titled: Whiteblood

Thomas Whiteblood was in love with a woman. He was one of those rare and fortunate souls who loved and was loved in return. One autumn day he stood beside her on the shores of the gulf just as the sun was crawling down the western horizon. There they stood quietly together, while Thomas held her close in his arms to shield her from the cold wind blowing in over the foaming waves. The beach was an image of desolation, empty of people and beautiful in its naked silence.

Thomas kissed her face, the face of the woman he loved. Her eyes were closed and her lips were red and dry from the salt in the air.

Her face was cold, so cold that he spoke her name aloud.

“Eleanor,” he whispered. He felt the burden of her weight press against his arms more than was normal. He spoke her name again but she did not answer. He feared to let go of her lest she fall into the cold white sand. Her head sank into his chest beneath the enclosure of his arms, pressing against his heart and forcing him to feel the beat. He dropped down to his knees and she fell with him, her dark hair flowing in rushes like the waves breaking against the nearby shore.

“Eleanor,” he said again. His voice was drowned beneath the crash of a wave. She lay in his arms like a sleeping doll. She never spoke. He stared down at her, watched as the sunlight crept across her pale face as though it were leaning in to kiss her goodnight. She had sand in her hair. She hated having sand in her hair.

Thomas watched the sun set on her face and when night had fallen he still held her there on the cold shore. After some moments he rested her in the sand, then lay down beside her and stared up at the stars. They had often lain awake through the night and watched the stars together.

* * *

She is dead. Thomas wrote the words on a blank page in a journal he kept. She is dead and I am alive and that is that. The words were cold, mechanical, as though they’d been written by someone who had never known love nor ever cared to know it. She died in my arms on a Thursday in November. She died because her heart failed.

Reading the words back to himself, he was reminded of the things he had written as a child. My dog, Trapper, caught a rabbit today and killed it. The matter-of-fact method of keeping memory did not abandon him even in his grief.

She died in your arms on a Thursday and you lay with her there on the cold, barren shore and though the night drew on you like a needle in your vein draws blood you did not move, you did not go for help, you did not weep over her corpse, you just lay there like some twisted… like some perversity of human nature. What you have always been. Why she loved you at all.

What I have always been. She loved me because I am what I have always been.

Outside the night was coming over the trees skirting the eastern field. The barn was glowing at him from the window—a red outpost that seemed farther off than it really was, the sun dipping beneath it. He knew the small hill would be yellow behind the barn because it was the hill that he and Eleanor used to visit almost every other night before sunset. They would walk down the hill and follow the hidden path into the trees where the stream ran dark and cold into deepening woods, where sunlight broke into flurries through a filter of leaves and pine needles.

Does it help you to remember those times? He wrote the question and asked it back to himself. He struggled to answer until he left the question where it rested and got up from the desk. Pulled the coat she had given him from the kitchen chair and putting it on stepped outside onto the back porch.

The air was dry in the breeze and colder now than it had been before sunrise that morning. He thought about the air being dry in Florida and about how he waited for this time of year to come because it was a rare and precious thing. But now he couldn’t think about it because she was gone and he used to always tell her how much he loved it and she would say but it’s so cold and I miss the summer and he would laugh and shake his head because one day of cold was more than she wanted and it was all he ever waited for.

He caught himself laughing, put a stop to it. She was gone and he could not laugh about things they had shared.

But she would want you to laugh, to remember those times. Wouldn’t she? What difference does make what she would want if she isn’t here to want it? The assumptions we make about the dead. The stupid goddamned assumptions. She wanted nothing but to be with me forever and now she can’t and somehow I’m to believe that she doesn’t want that anymore just because she’s…

Tightening his coat, he stepped down from the porch and walked out into the field. Walked up to the side of the barn where the wood was stacked and grabbed a load to build a fire with. The wood felt rough and cold against his naked hands. Dry, willing to burn through the night.

It isn’t hard doing things like chopping wood, building fires. Makes things better in some sort of way. Work always makes things better for some reason god only knows.

After the funeral, the house had been rife with the solemn presence of well-meaning people. Family he called some of them. They would not let him work because everyone knew that you didn’t work when you were grieving. He let them stay for a while because he knew it made them feel better, as though by being near they offered him a kind of consolation. He let them believe it so that they would leave sooner. So he could get back to work.

Go back to being the man you have always been and stay that way and don’t change but go on being that man and die that man.

What is it about people that make them think they can offer solace to a man? A man finds no solace in people that he doesn’t find within himself. If they’d just left me to my land, to my quiet labors, they’d show then that they knew something of what it means to be human… but that’s the problem with the world. It’s full of humans who don’t have the damnedest notion of what it is to be human. And damned if I haven’t stacked one too many logs.

He was going to set the bundle down in the grass before the top two could roll off. He was leaning forward to lay them down gently upon the soft earth. A black spider scurried across the topmost log and he dropped the whole stack. The spider vanished into the dark grass. He checked himself by rubbing his arms, his hair. Fear at sight of a lonely black spider.

You are more human than you thought you were. It’s a good thing, too.

After a moment, he bent down and arranged the logs into a neat pile, then stood up to face the eastern woodland where now darkness draped over the trees like the veil of a woman in mourning. Above the trees, the moon hung like the great bulb of some distant lamppost, a voiceless and solemn guardian who would keep watch through the night.

But even the moonlight is a kind of shadow, another form of darkness in its own right. There is no light but only levels of shadow I realize now.

“Wouldn’t it be fun to go somewhere where the moon was bigger?” she said to him while staring up at it. To him it seemed she stood like she might have when she was a child, her head tilted slightly and her hands restlessly searching until they found one another. He wanted to put his arms around her but instead he just stood next to her and kept the space between his body and hers constant, as though he were trying to hold two magnets half an inch apart without letting them touch.

Breathe.

He felt someone inhale for him. He could sense the earth turning and for a moment he stood upon the axis of perpetuity, in the shadow of a red barn and in the shadow of the trees beneath the moon.

The wheelbarrow is inside the barn. Should go get the wheelbarrow and use it to carry the wood back to the house.

The Blue Boy

The boy clothed in blue armor stood for a while looking down at the frost-ridden metal, his ice-blue eyes dull in the lightless grey of an overcast sky… an overcast world. His forehead was streaked with dried blood where the helmet had been split. Behind him lay his wrecked jet-bike smoldering in its ruin and casting a black pall into the westward breeze.

Farther behind lay the severed, cauterized body parts of Maverick assassin-bots. Their graves were as tracks marking the boy’s path.

His broken helmet rested beneath the fold of his weapon arm, the red jewel cracked and bereft of its previous glow. The helmet was useless to him now, but he held to it as though it might yet keep him safe.

Snow hovered over the long metallic causeway, falling away and melting into the stygian water of the bay, whose waves rose in the wind, rushing toward the distant shores as if being called home. The causeway stretched on for nearly a mile toward a burning city. She would burn well into the night.

A voice spoke within his internal communicator chip: “You all right, boy?”

“I am all right, yes.”

He checked the rate of power consumption on his arm-cannon. The readings were lower than he would have liked. He only had enough energy for standard blasts. He could manage against the smaller bots, but if he met another of the Reavers…

“You need to repair,” the voice in his brain said. The voice was like his own, though older sounding and dryer in tone.

“I can’t do that,” the boy said. He brushed a strand of matted hair from his face.

“If it were just the bike I wouldn’t ask you to come back,” the voice said, “but without the helmet you’re as vulnerable as anyone. And your power consumption–”

“Has drained all but my reserves,” the boy said. “I’ve managed with less before.”

“Those were different circumstances,” the voice said.

“I can’t abandon these people,” the boy said.

“One blow to the head and you’re gone, just like the rest of us. Come home.”

The boy stood for a moment in thought, looking out toward the flaming ruins. The sounds of mechanized warfare drummed from somewhere beyond the burning citadels and shattered columns. He looked down at the helmet.

“Son…” the voice pleaded now.

“Would you come home?” the boy asked.

“What?”

“If you were me,” the boy said. “Could you bring yourself to turn back?”

There was a long silence. The boy calculated how many might be dying with every moment that he lingered, but he waited with calmness. The energy levels on his arm cannon had risen by half a bar.

“No,” the voice said. “I could not turn back.”

“I will return when it is finished,” the boy said.

“This may not end as soon as you hope.”

“Can’t expect a hundred years of war to end in one night. Have you plotted my course?” The boy tossed the helmet toward the crashed bike, watched it roll and collide with the wreckage.

“I’m downloading the map into your memory core now,” the voice said. “Can you see it yet?”

“Yes. Eighty-four percent.” When the bar reached one-hundred percent, a cognitive map of the city replaced his previous map data.

“There is an underground canal where the causeway connects with the main platform,” the voice said. “It leads to the inner city plaza. There are no guardians watching the bridge. That is the safest route. You can make it.”

The boy leapt into a full sprint, the cleats on the bottom of his boots catching the ice. He ran three-quarters of a mile in under two minutes and when he came to the end of the causeway, dropped into the shallow water at the platform’s edge. There was a small, circular canal directly under the causeway where the corroded water from the city’s storm drains washed out into the bay. The boy entered, disappearing into cold darkness.

Forsaken

A noise, as of grating

coming from under the floor…

Like brittle fingernails

scratching the inside of a casket;

a child twined in mad raving—

I am alive it would say

if it could but speak,

but its voice

they stole away

on the day that they hammered it

into the seeping black earth.

The Glider

When Eliot died, he was taken, not by a boatman or an angel, but by train to a place he had not expected to be taken because no one had ever told him that such a place existed.
The train ride went by so quickly that he had difficulty remembering it afterward. The sweeping view of wild, empty landscapes that had at first seemed so vivid to him broke down piece by piece into an obscure perception, at last taking on the semblance of a dream.
It wasn’t until he was being led out of the cave and into the chilled, open air that he first began to consolidate these experiences as they came to him, one after another. He looked around and found that he was among a herd of slow-moving people, all with their eyes on someone at the front of the procession—a man as far as he could tell.
Eliot could not see the man with any clarity, as he seemed to be shadowed against the light of the cave’s outlet. Above the sea of swaying heads, Eliot saw the man lift up a hand and beckon to the crowd with it.
“Keep up, folks,” he called. “Almost there, now.” His voice broke into an echo that swam along the deepening walls into darkness.
Eliot looked down at the dusty floor ridden with pebbles. He had not imagined it being anything like this. A little girl came up to him and tugged the sleeve of his sweater.
“What is it?” Eliot said.
“I can’t find my daddy,” she said.
Eliot took her hand in his and held it tight.
“I’ll help you look for him as soon as we get out of here,” he said.
“I don’t think he is here,” she said.
“Maybe not, but we’ll look… just to be sure. He may be with another group.”
The little girl seemed satisfied with this and stuck close to Eliot the rest of the way. When they came out into the light, Eliot realized that it wasn’t light at all. He didn’t know what it was because he’d never seen anything like it before.
“Is that a sky?” the girl asked.
“Doesn’t look like one,” he said.
Eliot and the little girl followed the crowd along a wide ledge overlooking an empty valley. The grass in the valley was a rich, dark green; from far off, the fields appeared both holy and at peace under the grey light that was not a sky.
“I’ve seen this place before,” the little girl said. “In a dream.”
“I think I have too,” Eliot said. He looked out beyond the sloping grass toward the high-rising cliffs guarding the valley on the far side. There was a dark recession high up in the face of the cliffs. Another tunnel or cave by the look of it.
Guardians were posted along the ledge to keep people on course. One of them heard Eliot and the little girl talking and snapped his finger at them.
“No talking during the procession,” he said.
Eliot remembered something being said earlier about the need for silence during the journey, but that had been right after… a train ride? He was, after all, still a baby in this new place.
“Why don’t they want us to talk?” the girl whispered after they had walked a ways.
Eliot shook his head. “Just the rules, I guess. What does your dad look like?”
“I… I don’t remember,” she said. Tears began to form in her eyes.
Eliot could hear her sniffling. For a moment, he wasn’t sure what to do, if anything. He kept walking, pulling her along with him as if he were a little boy dragging a stuffed animal. She continued to cry.
Eliot stopped, looked around, then knelt down beside her. His knee stuck through the hole in his jeans, grinding into the hard path. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “We’ll find him. All right?”
She nodded, wiped her eyes. Eliot felt bad for lying, but he couldn’t stand to see the girl cry. Things were heavy enough without a child’s tears.
“Promise?” she asked.
Eliot looked into her sad eyes and felt something cold press against his heart. He had not anticipated that she’d ask him to give his word.
“Do not stop.” It was the same guardian from before.
Eliot got up and, taking the girl’s hand again, moved back into the solemn procession. They followed the ledge along the jagged cliff walls until the path opened out onto a flat shelf overlooking the valley. From his position in the rear of the group, Eliot could see that everyone was being rallied together on the shelf.
He felt the little girl’s eyes on him.
“What’s your name?” she whispered. He was glad that she seemed to have forgotten about the promise.
“Eliot,” he said without looking at her. “What’s yours?”
“Eliza,” she said. “Our names are alike.”
Eliot looked down, saw that she was smiling. He looked up to see another one of the guardians eyeing him suspiciously.
“I think we better keep quiet until this is over,” he said after they had safely passed beyond the guardian’s view. Eliza only nodded.
Strange girl, Eliot thought. He glanced down at her again, noticed that she was actually very pretty. He thought about her father and felt pain at the thought. She was so young…
He felt her hand tighten in his as they came to a halt on the wide ledge, then felt it tremble as a chill wind blew through the quiet throng. Eliot and Eliza were at the far back of the group and as such could not see over the crowd, stretching on before them like a field of somber statues. Nobody moved; nobody breathed.
“Eliot…” Eliza whispered.
He could tell that she was nervous. “Let’s just wait and see,” he said, trying to comfort her. He felt her hand loosen a bit.
Neither of them knew what to expect, but they both expected something. Amid the silence, they listened and waited.
Eliot saw a man step up onto a rocky platform overlooking the crowd; he could see the man clearly even from the back of the group. When the man spoke, Eliot recognized his voice. It was the same guide that had led them all to this point.
“All right, folks,” the guide said. “Pay close attention because I will not be repeating myself.” His voice carried over the precipice, echoing down into the valley.
“Most of you are probably wondering where you are,” he went on, “and with good reason. Well, let me start by saying that this is not Heaven.”
A gasp could be heard from a few people in the crowd. Eliot wasn’t surprised. It was obvious to him that this place was not Heaven… at least not the Heaven he had been taught about. He looked down at Eliza. She appeared calm, unmoved. He wondered if she even knew what Heaven was.
“It’s not Hell either,” the man quickly added.
The frightened people in the crowd seemed to relax.
“No,” the man said, “this is the place that exists between the world you came from and the world into which you are headed.”
Murmurs rose among the crowd. When Eliot heard this, he immediately saw the logic of it. He realized why the valley had the aura of something both desolate and peaceful. It was the place between places.
He felt Eliza tug at his hand. He looked down into her questioning eyes.
“I don’t want to go to another world,” she said.
“It’ll be fine,” he whispered. “Don’t worry.”
The guide began to speak again. “But before you go on to the world that awaits you…” the man paused a moment, observing the crowd, preying on their anticipation. “…it is your right to be granted an opportunity.” He smiled.
Eliot found something about that smile unsettling, almost as if there were a malignant thought at the root of it. But then he was looking at the man from far away, and the light was just odd enough to play tricks.
A man’s voice rose up from somewhere in the crowd: “What’s the meaning of all this mystery? What the hell kind of place is this, anyway?”
The guide shifted his eyes through the ranks of people, all dying to know what he was going to do or say next. Eliot could tell that the man was enjoying himself. The guide turned his head toward the valley.
“Bring up the first glider,” he called.
A sound came from somewhere beyond the edge of the cliff, a sound like metal wheels rolling along on a track. People near the back were standing on the tips of their toes, trying to see what was coming.
“I want to see it,” Eliza said. She pulled Eliot into the crowd.
“Eliza,” he said. “Wait.”
“Come on,” she said, and pushed forward through the ranks, tugging Eliot along with her.
They bumped into someone different at every step. Eliot tried to ignore the irritated looks people gave him as Eliza forced her way through the crowd. He glanced up to see the guide eyeing him from the platform. The man still had that curious smile on his face. Now everybody was looking at them.
“Eliza,” he said. “Please stop.”
“We’re almost to the front,” she said.
He only followed because he was afraid to let go of her—it never entered his mind to hold her back with force.
The sound of machinery grew louder as they neared the edge of the shelf. The people near the front saw them coming and stepped out of the way. Eliot got the feeling that it was not out of reverence or consideration.
Eliza came to a halt as the valley opened before her. Beyond the ledge, the green fields rose and fell like waves in an ocean; the sharp points of smoke-colored rocks broke out from beneath the hills. Eliza looked up at Eliot and smiled.
“That was easy,” she said.
Eliot just stared down at her. Such a strange girl, he thought.
Then he saw the grey edge of something triangular peek above the ledge.
“Looks like a kite,” Eliza said.
To Eliot it looked like a hang-glider, only bigger and different in a way he could not explain… something about its oversized frame perhaps. It was being brought up by a rising platform that looked metallic, only it didn’t reflect light because there was no light to reflect. The wings of the glider stretched out beyond the edges of the platform.
Eliot heard the metal wheels lock as the platform leveled with the edge of the flat shelf. There was a boom that resonated in the cliffs at all corners of valley, then died out somewhere among the empty glades and scattered rocks. The glider rested in silence.
“Does it really fly?” Eliza asked. Eliot started to answer…
“Magnificently,” a voice said.
Eliot and Eliza both looked up to see the guide standing before them; he’d come down from his pulpit to walk among his sheep. He smiled at the little girl.
“But don’t take my word my for it,” he said.
The guide looked up at Eliot and frowned. “So you are to be the first to fly it?”
“Uh… I didn’t…”
“He was in the back of the group the whole time,” a voice spoke from behind. It was the same voice that had spoken out earlier.
Eliot turned to see a man scowling at him from the front line. The man stepped forward.
“He shoved his way to the front only a second ago,” the man said. “Hell, you saw him do it. Why should he get to fly it first?”
“He’s right,” Eliot said. “We did push our way to the front. It wouldn’t be fair… and besides I’m not sure why I would even want to fly it.”
“Why indeed?” the guide said. “For where would it take you?” The guide stepped past Eliot and addressed the crowd. “I spoke of an opportunity. Here it is.” He motioned to the glider.
“On the other side of this valley,” the guide continued, “there is a tunnel.” He pointed to the dark spot Eliot had seen earlier when he had emerged from the cave.
Eliot looked back at it, noted how small it seemed. To accommodate something as big as the glider meant that the tunnel was a lot farther away than the eye made it appear.
“This tunnel leads back to the world from which you all came,” the guide said.
“You mean back to our lives?” the man from before asked. “We can go back to living again?”
“If you make it through,” the guide said, the lack of confidence evident.
“What happens if one of us goes and doesn’t make it?” the same man asked.
Eliot noticed the guide brighten at this question, almost as if he had been waiting for someone to ask it.
“If you do not succeed…” the guide looked over at Eliot, who was standing off from the rest of the group. “Then you die the real death,” he said.
A shudder went up through the crowd. Whispers and murmurs rose together and blended into a single, inarticulate voice.
“My daddy is on the other side of that tunnel,” Eliza whispered.
“You don’t know that for sure,” Eliot said.
“Yes, I do,” she said.
“Those of you who are unwilling to take the risk,” the guide said, “will accompany me to the next world, where you will be dealt with justly. Of that I can say no more.”
“Eliot,” Eliza said, her voice pleading. “I don’t want to go to the other world. My daddy is not there.”
Eliot stared at her for a while, thinking. Then he looked back at the glider. The great wings seemed to linger in air, sometimes lifting at the slightest force of wind beneath them. Once, the glider leapt up as if to fly, but the ropes tying it off at the bottom held it. It settled again onto the platform as the breeze dwindled.
“Is there only one glider?” Eliot asked. He remembered the guide had called it the first glider.
The guide laughed. “Good god, no. There is one for every person here. But, usually no more than one ever goes out.”
“Why is that?” Eliot asked.
“Because nobody ever wants to follow the one who failed, especially after they see it. So, who will be the first to fly?” The guide turned back toward the people. The same man who had complained about Eliot pushing through the crowd stepped forward.
“I’ll fly it,” he said.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the guide said, “our first volunteer. Your name, sir?”
“Crowe,” the man said.
“Mr. Crowe. If you will follow me, please.” The guide led Crowe onto the platform.
Eliot felt his sleeve being tugged.
“What is it?”
“See what?” Eliza asked.
“What are you talking about?”
She sighed. “He said that nobody ever wants to fly after they see it. What do they see?”
Eliot thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said.
As soon as Crowe was secure in the glider’s harness, the wind began to blow hard, pushing up against the wings. The glider leapt up into the air and hung there, pulling the ropes taught.
“You’re right,” Eliot said. “It does look a lot like a kite.”
“Let her go,” the guide called. The ropes uncoiled by themselves and fell back to the platform. The glider shot out over the valley and rode the wind over rolling green hills. The guide walked back over the platform and stopped close to Eliot.
Eliot watched the glider get smaller as it traveled into the distance. It wasn’t long before it looked like a speck in comparison with the dark spot, which now appeared like an open mouth in the broken face of grey cliffs.
Then Eliot saw something move inside the mouth… or thought he saw something.
“What was that?” he asked.
“What?” Eliza replied.
Eliot narrowed his eyes on the far-away cave. He searched for several moments but didn’t see anything.
“What was what?” Eliza asked.
“I saw a shape inside the cave, like a shadow or something.” He looked over at the guide. The man stared blankly across the valley, seemed inattentive to what Eliot was saying.
“I see it,” Eliza said.
“Where?”
“It’s gone now,” she said. “It did seem like a shadow, though.”
“Like black outlined against black, right?” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
The glider was close to the tunnel now. Eliot turned toward the guide.
“You didn’t tell him everything.”
“Didn’t tell who everything?” The guide continued to stare out into the valley.
Eliot gestured toward the glider off in the distance. “The man—Crowe.”
“I made the risks known,” the guide said. “And then he chose.”
Eliot turned away, disgusted. More and more he found himself hating this place… this desolate place with no sky and no light and—
“Eliot,” Eliza cried, “Look!”
Eliot looked out over the valley just in time to see it erupt from the darkness. The wings unfurled to reveal the muscular, bird-like legs curving down toward buckled claws. The skin was as black as obsidian yet dull as ash. The narrow head coned up behind the spine just like…
“A pterodactyl,” Eliza said dully.
Eliot heard her speak but could not lay hold of her words. He could barely comprehend what he was seeing. He felt like a child and an old man all at once and neither of them resembled the Eliot he thought he was.
He watched the glider turn away from the winged monster, then saw it bounce through the air in an unruly manner. It flew as though it were in a panic.
The beast brought its wings up and snapped them down, folding them inward with ageless grace. The glider begun to spiral downward, its flight broken by the new force of wind. The beast swooped down, caught the glider in its claws and in one motion tore it apart. Shreds of lacerated fabric floated down and disappeared beneath the hills.
The creature never roared or gave any kind of cry. It flew back toward the cave; the only sound came from the resonant beating of its wings.
“Eliot…”
Eliza’s voice seemed to come from somewhere far off. He looked down at her, saw that she was in tears again.
“What?” he said, and found that he too was crying. “What do you want me to say? That everything is going to be all right? Well it’s never going to be all right…”
“Eliot…” She began to cry harder.
“Because it was never meant to be all right,” he said. “Nothing is all right.” He squeezed her tiny arm. She stared up at him, helpless.
“Because in the end,” he said, “it’s always the same goddamn monster. So stop standing there expecting me to sing you back to sleep. I’m not your father. I’m not…”
Without thinking, he fell down into her arms, hugging her as if she were his. Her tears seeped through the fabric of his sweater, felt cold against his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t…”
“I know,” she said.
He took her hands in his and looked into her eyes. “I’m going to get you out of here,” he said.
Eliza only nodded, then looked up at something behind him. Eliot followed her gaze, turned to see the guide staring down at them. To Eliot, he appeared perplexed, as if he’d never seen two people crying before.
The guide abruptly turned toward the people, standing like rows of headstones and staring out into the valley.
“Who will go next?” the guide asked. The crowd rustled; a bed of dead leaves suddenly windswept.
“We will go,” Eliot said, rising to his feet. The guide looked over at him, then down at the girl.
“Both of you? At the same time?”
“Yes,” Eliot said. “Is that against your rules, as well?”
“There are no rules,” the guide said. “But if it is to be both of you, then both must choose. What is the girl’s choice?” He stared down at Eliza while waiting for her to answer.
She looked up at Eliot, saw him smiling at her; it was the first time she had ever seen him smile.
“It’s whatever you want,” Eliot said.
For the first time, Eliot realized that he was happy—happy that he had found her, or that she had found him. Without her, he would have been like all the other empty souls standing out in the crowd: lost, alone, afraid.
Eliza smiled back at him, her eyes still aglow with tears. “I want to go home,” she said.
“Very well, then,” the guide said, then turned toward the platform. “Bring up the next glider,” he called out. The rumble of machinery echoed down into the valley as the platform began receding into the precipice.
“Are you out of your mind?” a man from the crowd said to Eliot. “You won’t stand a chance against that… that monster.”
The guide stood by calmly, waiting. Eliot started to say something, but was cut off.
“I’m not going to let you take that little girl,” a woman near the front cried. “You’re insane and she doesn’t know any better. She’s only a child.”
Eliot just stood in silence, holding tight to Eliza’s hand.
The woman spoke to the guide. “If he wants to go and get himself torn to pieces, then that’s his affair. But he can’t take her. He can’t.”
Seeing that the guide made no attempt to respond, the woman stepped forward and stretched out her hand toward Eliza. “Come here, sweety.”
Eliot looked at Eliza. “Stay by me,” he said.
“Don’t you say another word to her,” the woman snapped. “Sweety, please come here.” The woman stepped closer.
“I’m going with Eliot,” Eliza said. The woman was about to say something else but the guide stopped her.
“The girl has chosen,” he said. “Now get back if you will not fly.”
“You can’t just—”
“I said, get back.”
The woman looked down at Eliza, then narrowed her eyes as she looked up at Eliot. She turned and went back to her place among the crowd. Eliot saw a man turn to her, heard him say: “Poor girl. It’s really a shame. You did the right thing, though.”
“They don’t understand,” Eliza said. Her voice sounded older as she spoke under her breath.
“No,” Eliot said. “They don’t.”
“This way,” the guide said.
Eliot turned to see that the next glider had been brought up. He and Eliza followed the guide onto the new platform.
“The girl will have to ride atop your back,” the guide said. “And she’ll have to hold on.”
“Can you hold on?” Eliot asked her.
“I’ll have to,” she said. “I won’t go if I have to fly by myself.”
Eliot climbed into the harness and wrapped his hands around the guiding bars, tried not think about how he was going to fly the thing. Eliza climbed onto his back and wrapped her arms around his neck, then fastened her legs around his back.
“You on?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Eliot looked over at the guide. “I guess we’re ready,” he said.
The guide just stared at him. Eliot saw that the man’s curious smile had found its way back to the surface… only this time there was something different about it.
The wind swept under the wings and the glider lifted, causing Eliot to center his gaze over the fields—the cave looming in the distance. He felt Eliza’s arms and legs tighten around him. The subtle leap made his stomach rise; he had never been fond of flying.
“Set her free,” the guide called. The ropes holding the glider fell away.
Eliot could feel the wind beneath them, lifting them up high above the valley and pushing them forward with great force. Flying was easier than he had expected—all he had to do was hold on.
“You all right?” Eliot called, tilting his to the side.
“Really cold,” she said, raising her voice above the hum of wind.
“Me too,” he said. “Just don’t let go, all right?”
“I’m not going to let go.” She sounded irritated.
The glider rose higher and held its course toward the cave, which was growing larger. The rocks and boulders in the valley looked like pebbles. Eliot tried not to look down. He kept his eyes on the cave. They were almost there.
“Eliot,” Eliza said.
“What is it?” he yelled back.
“I don’t think we’re going to make it,” she said.
“We will,” he said. “Don’t worry. Just hang on to me.”
“Eliot…”
“Yeah?”
“Nothing.”
The glider lifted higher as another gust of wind pushed up against the wings. The cave opened before them, a stygian maw ascending into their heaven… or descending into their hell. For a while Eliot peered hard into the nearing dark—at last he saw the shadow move.
The beast dropped down from some high place in the tunnel, its wings folded back behind it, and shot toward the glider like an arrow. Eliot was startled by how large the creature was; its head alone was the size of their glider, perhaps bigger.
He felt Eliza bury her head into his shoulder.
Eliot looked for the eyes—he wanted to look into the eyes of this terror before he conquered it… but there were no eyes. Where eyes should have been, there were only black folds of calloused skin.
The creature was blind.
“My god,” Eliot said.
“What?” Eliza cried, barely lifting her head.
“I know how to beat it,” he said.
“How?” she cried.
Eliot could not believe what he was thinking, could hardly bring himself to say it. He saw the beast’s wings rise up high into the air.
“You have to let go,” he said.
“What? You’re insane, Eliot. I’m not letting—”
The wings came down. The blast met them head-on and sent the glider spinning backward. Eliot looked away from the whirling horizon, focused on harnessing the undercurrent. After a moment, he brought the glider back up to ride the wind, then turned it around to face the cave. He saw the beast fly upward and then dive after them.
“Eliza,” Eliot said, “We don’t need the glider. Let go.”
The beast swooped over them, claws outstretched. Eliot pushed his weight forward, diving low out of the monster’s path. The glider plunged toward the hills and shot upward. He looked back to see the beast coming around, its wings flattened against the grey world behind it.
“Eliza,” he said, “I can’t keep this up. You have to trust me.”
“I’ll fall if I let go,” she cried.
“That’s just it,” Eliot said, “You can’t fall—not here. No rules, Eliza. It’s all one big trick. You can fly out on your own.”
“Eliot… I…”
Eliot felt a shadow rise over him, felt it swallowing the glider. He didn’t see it, but he knew it was there.
“Eliza,” he yelled, “Let go!”
He felt the weight on his back lift off… for a moment he wondered if he had done the right thing in telling her to let go. Looking to his right, he saw a little girl flying through the air, her hair blown back.
“That’s it, Eliza,” Eliot cried. “Now fly home! I’m right behind you.”
He watched her vanish into the cave’s enveloping dark, then turned the glider down and to the left just as he felt the shadow enfold him. He pulled at the bands securing him to the harness, was able to get the first one loose.
The claws tore through the wings. The glider lurched to the side as the beast caught it and lifted it up toward its slitted jaws. The creature bit down on the wing, then the metal frame. Eliot looked up into a fold of black skin.
He didn’t pay any attention to the sound of fabric tearing, the razor-tipped teeth gnawing away the metal braces. He unstrapped the other band from around his leg and fell free.
He felt the cold wind rush against his chest. For a moment, he thought he was going to keep falling until his body would be thrashed against some jagged rock in the field below. But flying came so naturally, so quick. All he had to do was ride upon the wind and let it carry him to freedom.
He never looked behind him to see if the monster was following, but kept his eyes on the tunnel. As he flew under cover of the cave’s top rim, he could hear the sound of metal rods snapping as the beast tore the flying machine to ruin.
Eliot drove deeper into darkness until he saw the tunnel curve up toward something… something that had the look and feel of light. As he rose toward it, he thought he heard a shrill cry coming from over the plains outside the cave.
Then the light caught him and he forgot everything. On the other side, his daughter was waiting for him.

The Wolf

A hollow night. An empty road
winds down through a field of evergreen.
A traveler looking to rest his load;
a patch of grass where he can lie, unseen.

Down from the path, a broken bed
of stones sleep beside a moonlit stream
and bright-beamed stars overhead
burst like holes in a blanket’s seam.

To sleep would be a blessing
but the autumn leaves have long since fallen;
the road stretches on, time is pressing…
What if he should wake, find his warmth stolen

by winter’s first snowfall?
Near the bank, the grass is soft;
he thinks, “Just a moment is all,”
and goes down to escape the draft.

As he bows to the water for a drink,
his eyes follow the stream round
a sharp turn at the forest’s brink,
diving past the slope of a grassy mound.

A bristly paw steps out into the light.
Under starry sky the wolf feels welcome.
‘But who is this seeking shelter from the night,
sitting under my moon? He is far from home.’

Their eyes hold upon each other.
No breath outweighs the trickling
of the water, joining them together
as though it were a sacred link

untouched by ages time had forgotten.
“Tonight we share the moon, the river,
perhaps as we did in the Garden…
when my father walked with his father.”

A howl from over westward hill
calls the wolf home; the beast is gone.
Under coarse shoes, Earth lies still…
“We who are divided, once were one.”

A hollow night. An empty road
winds down through a field of evergreen.
The traveler rises, tightens his load
and drifts into forested shadow, unseen.

This one is for Matt Fustah. Not much here for anyone looking for something superb.

Resting on the Side of a Mountain

Steep snow-laden side of this small Alaskan mount;
I sit on an icy rock, flat
like my ass but harder,
to breathe a moment
and scope out the valley to my left
down past a drop-off I know is there but can’t see.

Rest my ski poles over my lap—
they’re better legs than mine
for climbing mountains layered
with a fresh bed of snow from last night’s precipitation.

Farther down the slope, hinged on the backdrop of a quiet city,
my friend is climbing up to me. His poles won’t stab like mine
and the heavy pack keeps driving him
down into the snow like a bully.

It’s the only pack between us.

Smell of sweat dripping from my plastered hair
as wind blows cold under my hat.
I call down to him, ask if he wants to hand off the pack.
I think myself kind.

He quietly thrusts his pike into the mountain—
A flee bites Goliath.
So I don’t push for it.
I’m not used to the altitude anyway.

I swallow to drain off a lingering taste of home.
Rising, I turn my back on the city far below
and look up toward grey clouds
gathering near the summit.

My name is Florge. (Aka, the most random thing ever)

I came from that place that has the circle around it’s outermost reaches, where between the two hollowhold concaverns resides the discular platform of artificial thought. I have been gone from home for (illogical numerical value that cannot be translated) years in human perspective, and I don’t suppose I can ever go back now. I don’t remember my home as well as I ought, and the way back has been erased from the great memory magnet that lies at the offcenter of any given universe at any given time. My name is Florge, and I have traveled.