Oh leaning soul,
What is love but loss to come?
Old as we go,
Our hearts still yearn!
broken we’ve become
(more) something so complete
feels left so undone.
I’ve written words before,
with my mind ahead but my heart behind.
The weld of steal
the will the same.
the words of rum.
Oh you yield to past sorrow, yet to be overcome!
Don’t fear me,
I yearn for you
My heart! it beats this drum!
this soul unkept
by this shameless idea?
Unfound by words
but formed in song
This beast of red!
separated by miles
and measures unknown.
So pure but yet left.
I hate that I mean it!
but I accept my hearts agression
against logical oppression
Of heart the most!
with youth in mind but winds so changing.
Like salt in time
spinning, dipping, drawing from this well I have
but only to differ
from the will of one
to the keeping of many.
So dry It was before
but so deep in motion
a current strong!
The ocean, all oceans
deep and beyond
…with whisky words
and thoughtless emotion
I think of you…
Don’t hate me,
what i’ve seen is true.
With words so strange
Like the west when tamed
there is no danger
fall for me
oh leaning soul(less)
Click click. Say cheese. The white light of the flash.
She stored the reels of film in a wooden chest, once stunning, now marked with scratches, the children's names carved in. Every Sunday, after the photos had been developed and the boys wer(more)e at soccer practise, she fixed a pot of coffee and got to work.
The scrapbooks pile up: on the book shelves, on the coffee table, under the bed, stacked in the cupboards, spilling out of her dresser doors. She has piles of paper, spools of patterned tape, piles of embellishments- miniature bunches of flowers pressed flat, stickers of red hearts and gold angel's wings.
Now that the children have gone she has more time to look. She browses over breakfast, leisurely now she doesn't have to drag sleeping teenagers from their beds. Sometimes she wakes up, struck by loneliness, swings her legs to the side of the bed. John snores on besides her, dead and dumb.
Goes downstairs, fetches a glass of milk and surveys her volumes. Tries to remember the house being full, the old sounds: David coming back late from his job at the drive-in, the roaring mosquito sound of Craig sneaking in formula one past his bed time.
She looks at her children: flushed faces on the football pitch, thrusting forward pumpkin-shaped buckets on Halloween (Craig a jaunty pirate, David baring vampire fangs), sunburned at the beach.
She finds she cannot recall much, were it not for the evidence.
She remembers the click, the photograph, but nothing else. She was not really there but behind the lense.
He's been out there, fishing, for as long as you can remember.
You don't know how old he is or what he puts in the pasty little pail at his side, because his eyes are always downcast, and his breath always smells of briny sardines. But you hear(more) him reeling, day after day, at six-o-clock sharp without fail.
As far as you know, he's never caught anything.
You think sometimes that the fisherman must be the ghost of the lagoon, brought back to search endlessly for his murdered body, buried deep beneath the layers of grime and filth. That story doesn't make for a good one without any proof, so you sometimes just call him a traveler, and stare off sadly into the distance as if he were a long-lost lover. People pay attention to you then, and they murmur about how deep and mysterious you are, the girl who knows the story behind the little old fisherman at the lake.
But in your heart, you know he's a ghost, because a traveler would never stay here for so long.
December thirty-first comes and there is a small announcement in the local paper, noting the death of one Mr. Henry Branislaw. The next day the fisherman doesn't come - or the day after that. Now when people ask you where he went you give them a sad little smile and say he moved on, but in truth, you have no idea. Maybe he found his body. Maybe he gave up.
Deep inside I wanted to believe I had just been too hasty to act upon a rumor. In fact, I've spent the last half an hour trying to convince myself that the note I found earlier was part of some plot, the wor(more)k of some spy bent on destabilizing me. They'd been successful at that, I'd give them as much, but I wasn't about to let a bunch of random scrawlings turn my world upside down.
Or was I?
I know better, I know I do, I'm certain I do, I'm positive I do. If repeated lies can cease to be such, telling myself the truth over and over again can only make it stronger, right? Everything's all right. I have no need to be afraid, because the good side is my side. "Only those in error find reason to fear." Not me.
My fingers tremble as I pick a reel from the shelves of the Archival Section. I'm trying my best not to make any noise, for I had already breached regulations for leaving quarters outside my appointed time. I just couldn't sleep. I figured, if these are mere slanders, I should be able to debunk them right now. If not, I'll find--forget about it, it's all lies and I know that.
Yet the instructions are remarkably precise. Archival Section, Storage 2D, fourth aisle from the wall, third shelf. A box labeled 'Lifeblood' in green ink. Any can should do, especially one of those marked with a star. They'd been here, whoever they are. The proper course of action would've been to present this piece of paper to my superiors, but--I just couldn't. Those responsible risked death by putting this on my hands, yet they did.