A Collar and Eyeliner

"The Lord be with you," Father O'Leary mumbled from the pulpit. He knew the automatic response and only need wait for its monotone reply. He didn't want it to come. He wanted his sheep not to be led, but ritual breeds complacency, and Catholics love their ritual. He finally was questioning its purpose. Standing in front of his congregation wasn't the ideal place for chaos, doubt, or skepticism, so he wiggled his shoulders trying to shake it from his body hoping no one would notice as they blindly kept their faith. Notice they did, but they just thought it was Father O'Leary trying to keep himself awake. He had been known to fall asleep at mass on occasion.

Barry sat at the back of church. Black ringed his eyes, a left over from the night before, and cast shadows of hope. He wanted to believe. He wanted to be among the parishioners; he wanted communion. He wanted the warmth of nostalgia and childhood memories. He longed for the black and white simplicity of sin. His life, complicated by disease and an undying belief in compassion, waxed gray. He needed a little separation.

The mass continued its dull progression. Father O'Leary droned dispassionately. His homily was a meditation on boredom that bored the congregation to the verge of dreams and disillusionment. His lack of conviction almost produced his hope: there was a young man with black around his eyes that continually dropped the song book creating a reverberation of dissonance that echoed throughout the chapel; its loud thud caught on subconscious thoughts of conformity and habituation. It became like a metronome metering the monotony of Father's monologue. It sunk deep to the point of omnipresence: everywhere and nowhere at the same time. But then the weight of ritual and prayer overwhelmed, and everyone, including Father O'Leary and Barry moved on to the Apostle's Creed.

Professing devotion to a singular being wasn't something that Barry could do. He'd seen too much to believe in one truth above all else, yet that was precisely what brought him to church. He so wanted to believe in something other than his senses and reason. He liked the concept of blind faith, the ultimate release of one's self to something otherworldly. He just couldn't accept its reality or disconnect from true responsibility. If one could repent to be forgiven, why ever bother with doing the right thing at all? He placed the song book back in its wooden placeholder and stood to leave. This wan't what he really needed. It's what he thought he needed. As he began to leave, an itchiness grew.

Everyone rose in unison with Barry. His metered book dropping wove a web between him and the rest of the congregation. It spun deep into the nether regions of free will and critical thought. He held them captive beyond the grasp of Father O'Leary's doctrine and liturgy. Being sheep, they didn't notice it wasn't time to stand. Rather it was time to kneel, to press knees on hard planks of stained wood, to be uncomfortable, to remember suffering as a component of faith. It was modern self-flagellation.

Father O'Leary watched his parishioners stand. He was momentarily baffled and scared. Had they heard his dark thoughts of doubt? Did they know how bored he was of ritual? Were they rejecting their faith? And he had a moment of clarity made manifest by the man with the black eyeliner making his way towards the exit: he loved his power; he needed his parishioners. A crack in composure brought a point of panic and a scream let loose snapped the invisible strings connecting his congregation to Barry.

It sounded more like a whistle or a soprano's high note. It was more melodic than a scream, but underneath the melody was untethered emotion: a feeling of despair, disjointedness, disbelief. It was eerily intimate. It was that which Barry was searching for, and when it tickled the tiny hairs in his ears he abruptly stopped, turned, and stared at Father O'Leary.

The congregation stood between these two men locked in limbo. They buzzed like fireflies trapped in a jar aimlessly wandering, searching for an exit, unaware of what kept them trapped. Without their guide, their leader, their father they were left directionless and hopeless. They were waiting, like those trapped fireflies, for their last breath of air until their light was extinguished.

Father O'Leary stood motionless in front of the pulpit. He watched his fireflies like the child who trapped them: detached and slightly titillated at the decreasing oxygen and increasing lethargy. He now knew the true power he yielded, and he hoped it would respark his faith.

"My dear congregation," Father O'Leary lulled in his best imitation of his best Sunday voice. "You are my children. You are the reason I am here. You must not leave."

Barry turned again to leave. This wasn't his place any longer. He had left it behind when he put on his mascara at nineteen, and it still wasn't his place. It was a mistake coming back. He should have known this, but his body ached for relief and simplicity. His body wanted a final healing before its final release. The disease was growing. He could feel it multiplying underneath his skin causing incredible pain and discomfort and sensitivity to touch. Father O'Leary's message meant nothing to him. He wasn't a child and didn't want to be treated as one. At least not in these final moments. He wanted peace.

The congregation, conflicted, didn't know which way to face. Half stared blankly at Father O'Leary. Half faced Barry's back. They were still trapped somewhere between devotion and disbelief.

"Stop!" Father O'Leary demanded, and something broke inside of him. "Stop!" He yelled again as tears streamed down his face. "Sto..." and he couldn't even finish the word because he found himself falling to the wooden floor.

Barry heard the pain. It was more real than the aches in joints or burning red rash that covered his body. He wanted, no needed, to comfort that pain. Something told him this was his healing. He rushed to Father O'Leary's side.

"My dear child," Father O'Leary began.

"I am no child," replied Barry.

"Forgive me. Please forgive me. I have failed you."

"I can offer no forgiveness, Father. Only solace."

The disease quickened its deadly progression. The red itchy rash bubbled and blistered. Joints popped. A fever burned and boiled blood.

Father O'Leary just cried. Cried and cried.

The entire congregation witnessed Barry clutch Father O'Leary in his arms and kiss his forehead. They watched as Barry's body turned fire red and blood flowed from his eyes. They beheld Father O'Leary's body go limp. They bore witness to the passage of life and the relinquishment of power, doubt, and belief.

They were free.

Shadows and Footsteps

 
There from behind the shadow of a memory almost forgotten it stares at him calling him towards itself beckoning him to just be. He approached cautiously familiar and reminded of time unknown. The soft footstep on the dirt below echoes through the pines and dampened sunlight. It reaches his ears as a whispered verse: "We must hunger after our deliverance." (--Gandhi)

Immediately, his belly rumbles and reverberates its response, "I do not wish to be delivered." The stranger in the shadows disagrees. The sunlight as it dances behind the fog disagrees. The pines as the wind rustles its needles disagrees.

"Now!" Says the footstep as it gathers dust and dirt forming a small ball skirting across the ground.

He clasps his hands over his mouth signaling his disagreement and fear. The dusty dirt ball halts its progression and lays itself to rest. The footstep retracts back to the shadows, and the stranger is gone.

He is so alone he cries. He wishes he was braver. He wishes he had strength. He wishes for his deliverance. But all is gone.

So he leaves too.

Of Accordions and Monsters: A Poetic Pause

Julius stood on the platform, his shoulder length black hair rocking thanks to exuberance and wind, waiting for his train. It was supposed to be here twenty-two minutes ago. The monitor said he had another seventeen minutes.

Other travelers stood on the platform too. Each in their own world unaware of anyone else. Darkness grew making visible large white circles from lights above. Everyone avoided the light. It was as if light and person repelled each other as two positive ends of a magnet repel each other: there was no physical way one would come in contact with the other.

At home, Julius' auntie paced. She only let him leave because they perfectly planned everything. She was reluctant to let her thirteen-year-old travel to his audition alone. There were too many monsters. She knew. She still kept one in her drawer she picked up at eleven. It only came out now when she was stressed. She ran to her room, pulled it out, and lit up. "Where is he?" She worried.

Seventeen minutes became thirty-four. Darkness became black. Repulsion became stronger. Exuberance became anxiety.

Julius didn't notice time pass or darkness become black. He was remembering his audition, the spot light, his rendition of "China Girl" that no one else got. The director asked, "Why 'China Girl'?" "My auntie likes it," he replied. He liked it too, but thirteen-year-olds aren't supposed to like old people music.

Ash fell into the crowded ash tray. Her monster unleashed, Julius' auntie hacked violently. Time ticked on her digital clock next to her bed. "Forty-six minutes," she said. "Forty-six minutes." Counting continued. Another drag drawn.

More travelers appeared on the platform. It was as if being in darkness multiplied them. They were amoeba splitting, creating new beings. They were viruses.

Julius had now been waiting over an hour. Still no train. Still stuck. He knew he should call his auntie, but that meant finding a phone. He didn't want to weave between people looking for a phone booth. He didn't want to ask for help. He was grown and could take care of himself. His auntie only need wait.

A circle of light on the far edge of the platform sparkled. Julius noticed it. He saw it dance and flutter. He wanted to dance as it danced. He wanted to be in the spot light just as he'd been in the spot light on stage. An itch scratched now pleaded for more scratching. He started humming "China Girl". The light responded rhythmically swaying its beat. Somewhere above the platform an accordion echoed it antiphon. Julius quieted straining to hear poetry and verse.

Alone among many
Light repels dark
Step into the spot light
Let me make my mark

There on the platform
Trapped in time
You sway and hum
I'm waiting for your rhyme

Dance with me gingerly
Step into my spot light
It's time dear, Julius
Do not fear the night

Her eyes blinked close. There was a lullaby somewhere in a dream. It was one of those childhood lullabies that sound so sweet by lyrically menace. She didn't want it. She didn't want to be lulled to sleep. She was waiting for Julius. Her monster burnt her finger, and she snapped awake. The digital clock read 11:49. It was too late. He should be home. She contemplated driving to the train station, but her monster roared. She lit another and began counting again.

The travelers were numerous. They crowded the blackness. They pushed its expanse threatening to burst light. They were agitated, angry, ablaze.

The accordion kept singing its nighttime song. Julius searched for its origins not with eyes but with hear and ears. Eyelids closed he felt. Its high timbre shook shoulders. The click of keys tickled toes. Th back and forth fanning propelled his pelvis. Julius moved towards the dancing circle at the edge of the platform.

The clock read 11:59. Julius' auntie, too aware of midnight hauntings, cried. She wanted him home. She wanted safety and protection. She wanted innocence and naiveté.

Julius stood at the edge of light. The music sprung from the lightbulb above. He knew that without sight. He knew everything as only children know everything. He lifted his foot steady for his next step.

The travelers buzzed. The monitor read "Arriving". A low distant grumble reverberated down the platform. Julius' auntie fell into a dark sleep. Together, it pushed little Julius. He stumbled and stepped into the light.

The accordion stopped. Travelers boarded. An ember fell from auntie's monster igniting bed and bedroom.

Julius held. It was his spot light. It was his verse. It was his.

And he had no clue what to do next.

The Specter and the Volcano

  
The specter visited Miri not when it was night nor in dark spaces. It visited her when the clouds blanketing the sky cast monochrome; that unique time when everything and everyone fade into backgrounds; when there is no distinguishing between object, subject, thing, being. It made itself known by minimal movements deftly defying gravity. Miri liked its visits. She prayed for cloudy days.

On the other side of the world, a volcano beckoned and billowed. Its low soft grumble invaded dreams across nations. People stirred, tossed, flung arms and legs as if a spasm burst from bellies. Miri's dreams were quiet. Her specter already warned her about its friend. "Soon, I will never leave," it said one Tuesday afternoon. "I shall walk among you thanks to my friend, volcano. We will never part, dear Miri. We shall be as one. You must remember until that time comes."

Miri woke each morning eagerly rushing to her computer hoping for news about volcanic activity, disappointed when none was found. Time ticked forward, and Miri's anamnesis waned. Her childhood friend became an adult hallucination that faded with each ray of sunlight or moonglow. Each visit was more fugacious leaving less and less on which to hold. The hope of permanent union became smaller than a poppy seed.

And the world moved forward too. Quickly. The pace of lazy afternoons cavorting with friends was replaced with instantaneous internet connections demanding continuous response. Casual business lunches spent listening and inquiring shifted to conference calls about bottom lines and increased efficiency. Time became smaller and more incremental: measurements meant to lengthen only shortened. Faster and faster everything spun. It was so accelerated dreams were lost.

Still the volcano beckoned and billowed.

Miri sat in her cube -- ear buds plugging external sounds and eyes mesmerized by green flashing cursors -- as outside clouds bubbled. A soft pitter patter cascaded down windows only a few feet away. Lights crackled and thunder clapped. Miri was static; lost between the virtual and the real. She didn't notice the gray wash everything. She didn't feel the tiny flick of her specter caress her cold, pale cheek. Hope, even the tiny poppy seed-sized hope, had shrunk. And so too did the specter vanish from recognition.

No one noticed it. No one. Everyone experienced it. The moment the volcano spewed its ash everything halted. Airports closed. Computers turned off. Phones hung up. Cars stalled. Business ceased. The back and forth buzz of clatter and commotion silenced. Monochrome covered all.

In the universal gray, shadows danced.

Miri's screen went black and her music stopped. She felt a warm itch on her cheek and scratched. Something tickled its response. She had the vague idea of a cloudy Tuesday afternoon and a hint of remembrance. Annoyance at interruption almost eclipsed childhood hopes, but hopes are tricky things: while shrunk beyond ocular perspicacity they never truly cease. They infect your body waiting to be recalled, only their awakening is more violent, catastrophic, cathartic. They are like chicken pox becoming shingles.

The itch on Miri's cheek mushroomed and soon enveloped her whole body. She was on fire, flush red, a stark contract to her cinereal surroundings. Her body burned quickly and noiselessly. Her curly black hair now a charcoal burnt scalp. Her once freckled skin a crusty scab. Her sunny sundress soot beneath her broken feet.

In that moment of combustion, she remembered; a door opened; the specter entered. They became one. And right before their communion one emotion pervaded everything: hope.

On the other side of the world, a volcano wailed, "The time of the specter is here."

The only thing that moved was Miri.

Characters around Town

 
These are a bunch of small character profiles inspired by people around San Francisco. You never know when or where they might pop up. 

***
Her short bangs and brown-black hair pulled into braided pigtails made each wrinkle and line smooth as she smiled at me from the cashier. Her brown eyes twinkled a karmic recognition of which we were both unaware. The black inked roses searched her backpack with care and urgency trying to find that notebook containing secrets and stories about to be typed. She sat and began with loose wrists.

***
The tourists speaking German sit in the alcove eating their bagels and licking cream cheese off their fingers as they smile for flash photography.

***
He looked exactly like Santino from Project Runway although it wasn't him because he exchanged pleasantries with the barista in a style devoid of ego. And his prayer beads weren't fashionable.

***
His Russel Brand hair matched his girlfriend's Amy Winehouse bun although her hair was bleach blond. They seemed a perfect pair including studs on jackets and boots. Obviously, as they stumbled and sat on wet chairs outside, they were recovering from the previous evening. It must've been fun. Their backwards glances oozed both headache and debauchery.

***
The green, blue, and black plaid golf cap with a black yard pom pom squarely on top didn't match her black t-shirt with neon lime and turquoise print. Such things shouldn't be let out of closets let alone homes. She at least made up for her horrible hipster attire with black plastic almost jellies with cut out skulls at the toes. They led her departure.

***
Those too tight charcoal gray pants looked more likely to be found at a yoga studio than on a professional woman with her Kate Spade bag, blond wet hair, and periwinkle pashmina getting a cup of coffee before her downtown job. Let's hope her colleagues don't point out her camel toe.

Concrete Cube

  
He hid in the small cube of a storm shelter tucked behind a closet in the basement. The cold concrete cooled his raging temper. The six walls confined his violent outbursts. The gray replaced his red. He only emerged when he was finally calm.

The Razed Playground: A Parable of a Dream

     
Have you ever been told, "You can't do that"? This is a story that proves everyone else wrong. But it does come at a price.

She sat on the playground with her toy trucks, pile of broken twigs, and a few rocks she dug up from the dirt patch adjacent to the playground. It was her construction site, and she was waiting for her crew to being building her city. They were over an hour late.

Yesenia picked up her dump truck and inspected the wheels. Three out of the four worked. The fourth hung wobbly off its pin-sized axis. It wouldn't rotate. She picked up another truck and did the same thing. All in all there were five broken wheels on six trucks. She grabbed her olive shoulder bag, the one she carried the trucks over in, and pulled out a small notebook and pencil she stole from the library. She wrote down which trucks needed which wheel repaired and threw the notebook back into her back. Still no friends arrived.

The real construction crew arrived at the dirt patch and began their digging, hammering, and sawing. The noise called Yesenia, and she hopped off the playground and walked towards the dirt patch. The crew was all wearing canary hard hats and neon orange coveralls. Each on had a specific, discernible task. The man with the clipboard checked everyone's work. The one at the table saw was cutting wood of different lengths. The ones with the shovels were either digging trenches or filling them in. There was one gentleman standing in the corner, chest held high, hard hat slightly crooked, closely watching everything. The man with the clipboard checked in with him after every visit with a crew member.

Yesenia loved the order and control of it all. She wanted to be the one with the slightly crooked hard hat. She just needed her friend to show up so she could begin being boss. Thirty more minutes passed, and she was still by herself.

The dirt patch was transforming before her eyes. It was flatter and smoother than earlier in the morning. The trenches outlined different size boxes making the dirt patch look almost like a quilt. Now, some of the shovelers were digging deep holes for large wooden posts. The guy at the table saw was cutting cutting the posts that would soon be filling the holes. The man with the clipboard was smiling. The man watching it all was also smiling.

Yesenia was smiling. Her friends still weren't there, and she didn't care. She was happy watching everything from the top of the slide and taking notes. She considered it good fortune that she had this time to prepare. Her notebook was full of roles and instructions for each on of her friends. She was now ready and ecstatic to build.

A loud scream erupted from the far end of the dirt patch, and  men ran to find it. Yesenia slid down the slide and joined the crew at the construction site. There in one of the holes was a man crying, blood pouring from a gash above his eye. The foreman with the clipboard ran to a truck parked near by and returned with a white plastic box. The man with the crooked hard hat furrowed his brow and squinted his green eyes; he dabbed the wound with a red handkerchief he pulled from his back pocket. Blood continued spilling to the ground.

The foreman man opened the first aid kit and started dressing the wound. After a number of bandages and gauze, it was apparent the injured man had to see a doctor. Nothing stopped the bleeding. The boss looked looked worried and rubbed his hands back and forth. He surveyed the dirt patch and pulled clipboard man aside. Yesenia followed.

"Harvey needs ta get ta hospital. Ya take him. I'll try and keep on schedule," said the man with the green eyes.

"You sure? We need to finish setting all the beams today or we'll fall behind. We need to be ready for concrete tomorrow," replied the man whose clipboard now sat on the dirt beside his feet.

"We need ta keep our men safe. That's the most important thing. Just go. I'll figure it out."

Yesenia looked back at the playground. Her friends weren't there. She turned back to the conversation between the two men and interjected, "I can help! I've been watching you all morning. What can I do?"

The two men turned to her and noticed her brown pigtails, ruddy cheeks, and dirty jeans. They both let out a small chuckle that reached Yesenia's ears and made her frown.

"I just want to help. Isn't there anything I can do?" She snapped.

The green eyed man replied, "Kiddo. Yer a little too young. Thanks for the offer, but ya could get hurt."

Hearing the reply, Yesenia sat down on the dirt. "I'm not moving until you find me something to do."

The foreman tapped his boss on the shoulder and whispered in his ear. The corners of the green eyed man's lips lifted. "Of course," he whispered loudly.

He turned to Yesenia. "We have something ya can do, but ya must follow our rules. They're there to keep ya safe. Do you understand?"

Yesenia jumped to her feet. "Of course I do! What can I do, and what are the rules?"

A few minutes later and Yesenia was holding the clipboard in her hands and a yellow hard hat pushed her ears out so she looked a little like Dumbo. The injured worker and the original clipboard man left for the hospital. Everyone else was back at work digging holes, cutting wood, and placing the posts in the holes. Yesenia tiptoed carefully between the stations and reported the progress to the boss.

"Everything looks okie dokie," she said. "I'm paying close attention to their work and the items on the clipboard just like you told me. So far nine of the sixteen items are done!"

As she was giving her report, her friends strolled up to the playground. They saw her in the construction site and waved. She ignored them and continued her report. When she was finished she asked the boss, "What's next?"

"It looks to me like yer friends have arrived. Why don't ya go play with 'em and leave the construction to us," he replied.

Yesenia began fidgeting. She was torn. She wanted so much to run to her friends, tell them about helping out at the dirt patch, and begin building her own city, but she also loved being a part of the construction crew. Here she had a finite task and knew exactly what her role was: to check off tasks on her list. There she knew what her role would be too - boss - but with it came more responsibility. She didn't know which she preferred.

"Could my friends help you out," she asked.

"No, Yesenia, they can't. It's too dangerous here for kiddos."

"But I'm a kid, and I'm helpin' you out."

He laughed. This time it wasn't a small chuckle, but a full bellied chortle. Its harsh braying tone hit Yesenia's ears and she started crying. She knew it wasn't a laugh to humor her. It was a laugh making fun of her. She turned her back to her boss.

"Listen, sweetie," he said, "yer a girl. Sure ya've been helping me out, but I only gave ya that task to make sure ya didn't get in our way. This ain't a place for ya. Go along and play with yer friends. We've already had one man injured. Don't need a kiddo injured too. Especially a girl as pretty as you."

Yesenia stopped her crying and whipped around to face the boss, her black hair a messy, untamed flurry. "Just because I am a girl and a kid doesn't mean I can't help. You just wait and see mister boss."

Green eyed man laughed a little more as he turned away from Yesenia and returned to the construction site. Yesenia grabbed the clipboard determined not to give it back, and joined her friends on the playground.

Many years later, Yesenia was the lead contractor on the new world's tallest building. She surveyed the construction site, which currently housed a housing complex, with her clipboard in hand, scribbling notes and secrets she wouldn't show anyone else. It needed to be razed for construction to begin.

Next to the complex was a playground that also needed demolition. She meandered over to the slide and inspected it. There in the shade underneath the slide was a toy truck half buried in the sand. She picked it up and fiddled with the wheels all four of them were broken.

She picked up her pen and made one last note on her clipboard: "To childhood dreams, may they be razed with care."