Vine of the Earth

Published by Ascent Aspirations Magazine August 2008

In the predawn hours, Edward waited on the stained padding of his cell bed, anxious for the buzzer. For that daily scream, always prompt, always clear, would announce the beginning of his day and reunite him with his dearest. He was no longer a young man, and it had taken thirty years for the raging fires of his heart to die down to the sleepy hues of sunset. And even as his bones creaked under the hanging folds of his chestnut skin, his body warmed under rays of anticipation as the morning hours clicked on, the blood of an old scorpion heating on the sands of the desert. Soon, my dearest, he thought, imagining delicate lovely limbs leaning toward him, bending under the water spray of his love.

The weed was all Edward had. He’d spotted the precious thing alone in the cracked floor of the concrete along the eastern wall. At first he thought it a mirage, a trick of his cataract-plagued eyes. After twenty years in other prisons and ten in the one that now caged him, his eyes had assured him, with the exception of black, white, and gray, that there were no other colors in the world. They are all gone, they’d said, guiding his hand to a trash receptacle in the corner, into which he dropped a tattered bible. And yet on that glorious day, his dearest had appeared before him, a minute emerald forest. As he looked upon her sacred greenness, he was reminded of things he thought were forever washed away: the chartreuse-backed frogs in his mother’s yard; the algae floating gently on the lakes of his youth; the iridescence of the scales of bass as they swam by his strong legs; and the pine needles sprinkling the snow. Most of all, the paradise rising from the ground reminded him of the soft grass on which he held his first love. And though his dearest was not his first, she would surely be his last.

And she had been waiting for him all this time, he reasoned, to bead her petals with adoration and respect. Eagerness filled him as he counted down the hours until he could be with her again, images of her supple clovers caressing his gray beard. Together, in the nurturing soil hidden below their roots, they would proliferate; their lovemaking an act the earth itself had blessed and given its permission to take place. But not yet, my dearest, Edward thought. We must be careful because they are watching us always. We must keep our love hidden. Be vigilant, sweetness.

At last, the buzzer sounded and white lights flooded his cell and the entire floor. Earnestly, Edward struggled to his feet. The silence of the cell block was quickly poisoned with bitterness and sorrow, and Edward could hear the other men groaning and cursing assaults on their ears and eyes. Ready, the old man feebly stepped out of his cell, the only one smiling.

The herd of men shuffled miserably to the showers, and then the mess hall, each man inwardly preparing for the wars of the day. For the inmate population operated like Balkanized states, the delicate balance between them ensured by endless scuttles in the gladiator rounds of the prison yard and atop steel cafeteria tables. Like war clans, they battled ruthlessly over territory and influence.

But in the Great Room, an enormous glass box with the words, "Freedom is Work," engraved above the entrance, the populace became one. The men assembled under the watchful eyes of cameras that never grew sleepy, awaiting the signal. At length, a siren blasted through the silence and the men poured into the maze of machines like thick liquid. The hum of the underground factory cocooned the inmates; their bone marrow, teeth, and eyelashes pulsating, keying to the vibrating flecks of granite under their feet. They drank deeply of the five-hour shifts, intoxicating themselves with the sweetness of rote activity and tedium; the everlasting drones of the prison corps hive their only deliverance from the flesh burns of private purgatories.

Before the advent of his dearest, when his spirit lay in a heap of crushed stone, Edward had toiled in that same manner, his mind folded into the titanium pegs of the contraptions. Now, as he assembled sneakers in the Great Room, he could behold his dearest with elegant subterfuge as she waved joyfully from across the wasteland room. Now, he could raise his head above air choked with acrimonious fog and witness her triumph in this open pit of hell. The miracle that no one else had noticed her glory was, Edward felt, an avowal of the holiness of their union. And as he straightened the crooks in his arthritic fingers, he smiled assuredly; certain that one day a brilliant Bird of Paradise would erupt from her tender breast, and together they would fly away.

A whisper broke through Edward’s furtive revelry. "Pssst! Hey old man! You made it to another one, huh?" said a cross-eyed inmate as he fastened a flap of leather to a vice.

Edward looked at the man uncomprehendingly. As his dearest grew more beautiful and strong, especially over these past several months, he found it increasingly difficult to find interest in the concerns of men. "What?"

The other man hoisted an armful of rubber, dropping it into a bin. "Happy fucking New Year."

Indeed, thought Edward. For rot and ruin were the only measures of existence left to any of them. Still, these were obsessions he had long since abandoned, fixations that led only to madness. My dearest has ended my decay, he thought gratefully. The old man looked at his secret green, wondering how long it would be before he could truly be with her, his blood chilling at the thought of peering into the crack and finding her gone without him.

The Bride

Published by Ascent Aspirations Magazine August 2008

There wasn’t a day that went by that she didn’t think about him, her blood chilled by his presence in the shadows. Selling the Ford Explorer and leaving town hadn’t done the trick. He was still there. He would always be there staring at her, his eyes ablaze. Gripping the steering wheel in the gloom of the garage, she could still see his face.

Forty-nine days of Gordon Jeffries. His name was an iron bit in her mouth, unspeakable, though it rang all day in her head. Forty-nine days of sweating through her pillow at night, of jumping at the sound of every siren, of watching the news- white knuckles clutching the chair. Worries crawled from underground, feeding on her nerves like legions of the damned, relentless and undying.

She turned the key in the minivan’s ignition and tapped the remote on the visor, dreading exposure, obscurity her only ally. The garage door slowly creaked open, illuminating the cavity. Every muscle tensed as the world rushed in, invading light cutting her breath. Relax, she told herself, thinking of the twins’ cheery faces waiting at the day care. She wondered how long that would last, every rising sun threatening her chance to see it set.

Those happy smiles were all she could think of on Sycamore Lane that day, when she hit Gordon Jeffries with the front end of her Ford Explorer. He had come out of nowhere, an apparition appearing in the instant she reached in the back seat to give one of the twins a bottle and turned around again. His bugged eyes burned through the windshield just before impact. In the thick moments afterwards, the trees lining the street had begun to elongate, bending into bars around her.

This did not happen, she’d convinced herself in those seconds, pushing back images of black robed judges, gray cells, and child protective service workers shaking their heads. Driving away, she’d had to look past the blood splashed on the asphalt and the bowels the phantom had let loose on himself to keep the twins’ smiling faces from vanishing forever.

Her pupils collapsed in the glare. The green digits on the dashboard clock blinked angrily, demanding she forfeit her remaining time, the idling minivan waiting for her to make a move. Breathe, she thought. But then she remembered that Gordon Jeffries wasn’t breathing. Not anymore, and the evening news had said so. Man dies in hit and run on Sycamore Lane today…Police have no leads and there appear to be no witnesses. If you have any information, please call….

There were no calls. No red and blue lights flashing through the windows of her house at night. No sharp knock on the front door. Now, there was only the bloodletting of trepidation and the scraping away of bits of her soul. But always, Gordon Jeffries was laid out in a parlor of darkness, heavy curtains drawn over his tomorrows.

She’d heard that those closest to you are with you even after they are gone. And he would remain near, fixed upon her for all eternity. Long after guilt had worn her down to silt, and everything she loved flew as ashes on the wind, he would be there. To her unknown end she would move through this life, secretly wed to his death. Solemnly, she put the car in reverse and backed toward the light.

Amber

Published by Underground Voices September 2008

I am suffocating in the thickening sap of an AMBER Alert, the bends buckling the air sacks in my lungs, my bowels at the gate of my body. My son’s name and picture flash across my cell phone, and I will his image to be blasted from every satellite circling the planet.

I stand, thunderstruck, among fairies and phantasms in front of the Haunted House. My eyes pivot to faces of balloon wielding children all around me, and I damn each one for not being the face I want, I need, I must see.

And I hate, with every fiber of my being, all the parents who do have their children by the hand, in the stroller, on their shoulders, on their hips. And I want the sun to stop burning, and the wind to stop blowing, and the earth to stop turning, and I want everyone everywhere to stop living until I get my son back. And I curse God for making a love too thick for me to breathe in.

I swoon from smells of cotton candy and burnt popcorn, my head swinging with the bushy eyed pirates on the swing ride and spinning with the giant red teacups, and slowing with the rainbow of horses on the merry-go-round, stopping at the woods to the southeast. I have not noticed the gang of trees until now. Why haven’t I noticed them until now? We were here the whole time you licked strawberry ice cream, waiting in line for the Demon Drop, they say, laughing, shaking their leafy heads at my silliness, at my carelessness.

And I am sinking, sinking down through armies of pedophiles on websites, and shadows holding out lollipops and puppies, and brown, windowless vans, and cinder blocked basements.

And then I see Phlegyas walking toward me to take me across the River Styx, where I will find my son on the other side, waiting for me in a valley of smiling, missing children. His man voice is muffled by giggles, and carnival music, and babies crying, and It’s a Small World After All, and death embracing screams from Demon Drop. Something shiny on his chest burns out what is left of my bloodshot eyes, his lips moving, mouthing, saying something I cannot hear.

What is he saying? I do not know, because I am still sinking down, riding a child size casket to the ocean floor, my husband’s angry eyes glaring at me through the bubbles floating up.

But Phlegyas is mouthing still through the darkening blue, waving his hands across my face, and snapping his fingers. Someone else says, "Ma’am?" Has something happened that they would call me Ma’am? Because I was Miss just a minute ago, and now that I cannot find my boy, I am Ma’am.

What are they saying? I butterfly stroke up from a gorge of amber and despair, my head cresting the surface in time to hear the police officer say, "We have your son, Ma’am. He’s fine."