USSR pt2

It seems like moments after I climbed through my window and into my bed, when the sun rose and my mother burst into my room. She yanked the blanket off me, proclaimed me a sleepyhead and blew out again.
I slid out of bed and shuffled over to my wardrobe, where my mother has graciously laid out clothing - brown trousers and a light cotton shirt.
My father's seat at our table was empty, probably having a 'working' breakfast with his Bishops, going over the nights losses and victories. The other empty seat my eyes avoided on instinct, focusing instead on my small bowl of porridge. Mother tried to alleviate the brown gooeyness by throwing in a few berries, but it was dreadful. I ate it anyway, because heaven know if there would be lunch.
"You'll be working with the Connelly's this morning. They're needing a bit of help with the planting what with Arthur out of sorts(This was Mother's way of saying 'recovering from near fatal injuries') then I want you to come back here at midday and we'll start on the dishes for Belle's trousseau."
"Alright, Mother." I took the empty bowl to the sink and cleaned it. "I'll see you later.' I went to the door, my tongue heavy with all the things I wanted to say, but wouldn't. I wanted to tell her about last night, about the serenity of the Night Garden, about the way the Felix girl, River, had approached me, the way that we had spoken all night. But then I would have to explain that I had been sneaking out every night for the past 6 months, how I had allowed the enemy close enough to touch, how I could even bare to look at her after what happened. So I kept my lips sealed as I opened the door, the rusty hinges near giving way to undue duress.
"Oh, and Prudence? The Bishops are coming for breakfast on Friday, so we'll have to make some tea cakes."
With what? The dirt from the path with grass for colour? I resisted the urge to comment and smiled.
"Of course, Mother. May you walk with her in your heart."
"And you, daughter."

Untitled Short Story of Rachel's (USSR for short)* pt1

I went to Sanctuary with blood on my hands. I hadn’t bothered to wash it off when I left the infirmary, but now I wish I had taken the time. The blood has dried into a rust red and was tight under my finger nails. I briefly considered rubbing it off on my skirt, but Mother would have a fit if I returned with bloodstains on my clothes. No, I would wait until I reached the summit.

My bones ached and I longed to lay in the bushes and forget about the pain, the terror and, most of all, the hope. But my battered mind craved the serenity of the Sisterhood and forced one foot after another.

The first moment of calm came when I saw the stone arches of the gateway and the statue of Marita beside. I went to my knees beside the Mother of God and whispered a prayer. There was a well at her feet and I took time to remove all the blood from my skin; there was no place for war here. Satisfied at last, I let the water drip from my fingertips as I passed under the arches.

The robed figures of the Sisters floated past as I walked through the Night Garden to my place. I recognized some faces here and there, widows and orphans who had taken the veil after the death of loved ones. Other I only knew from my nightly visits, women from the other side, whose motives I could only guess. I was usually bursting with questions I could never ask - the idea of approaching a Sister for anything other than spiritual guidance made me cringe with mortification.

I ducked under a cypress branch and smiled as I saw my pond. It was clear and still, dotted with lilypads and reflecting the full moon. I walked to the far side and laid next to a rose bush. It was silent except for the wind through the trees and the nightbirds singing.

(The high walls of the Sanctuary kept out the sounds of fighting.)

I loosed my hair from it’s braid and fanned it around me, working the tension from my scalp. With my ankles and wrists crossed, I allowed my eyes to close, letting my mind wander away from the valley, over the mountains and toward places I could only dream of; to my imaginary village where the hours were marked by life, not death; where you listened for children’s laughter, not distant gunfire; where the end of the day was met with families reuniting, not broken irreparably. If only this place existed outside of my dreams.

“May I join you?”

I opened my eyes to find the silhouette of a woman above me. Even though I couldn’t see her face, I knew I wouldn’t know her. Even in the moonlight, I could see that her hair was fair, long and straight, her body was naturally slender, not the slimness of hunger. As if that wasn’t enough, her eyes threw back the reflection of the moon, inhuman in their brightness.

Felix.

I considered saying no. She would leave quietly, probably already anticipating my answer; she would have known what I was when she came over. My lips opened over the words, but wouldn’t come forth. It was what my father would have had me do. And I had had enough.

“Please.”

**********

So, this is a short story that I wrote over the summer when I was trapped in an '86 Westie with my family in California. It's the only thing I've ever come close to finishing, the only notebook that I have ever filled and I am a little bit proud. I will be posting parts as I transcribe them to my google doc.


*I think I'm funny :)

Home

You're home
I know it's true, I can see it with my own eyes
you're standing in the kitchen
you came it through the front door
your uniform is crisp and shines with medals
Proof of how heroic this whole tragedy was

So I see, that you're home now
But you're looking around like you've never been here
like you didn't lay that floor with your bare hands
like we weren't married in this very room
like you didn't make love to me on that table right before you left me

You left me
you left me
and they tell me that you're home now
but all you see are dreams
and all I see are ghosts

You left me
And it's taken years to figure out how to breath
years to teach my heart to beat around he breaks
years to learn my life without you in it
to convince myself that I could

But you're home now
you came in through the front door
wearing that same look
the one you had every time I said

I love you

the one that's waiting for me to take it back

You're home now and I don't know if I can back track over the years I pretended I was fine more hours than I slept
the years I prayed almost as much as I cried
the years I told myself I didn't need you
the years I almost believed it

But you're home now
and I can try

You're home now

You're home now

I Don't Sleep With Ellen

I mapped her freckles with my fingertips. They were too numerous to count, so I fathomed them into constellations only I knew the names of.

She slept like a fairy tale princess, all flowing hair and wistful lashes. Her one quirk, her brilliant eccentricity, were her smiles. Discovered by accident one night, I jumped at them like a kitten with a ball of yarn, spent the whole night coaxing them forth. A finger running down her nose, a breath in her ear, just to watch her face curve into a smile she herself would never see - a smile I told myself wasn't mine.
I expected her to wake, to roll over and squint as she asked what the poking and prodding was for. But she slumbered on, Snow White in her glass coffin.

The other unique thing about Ellen was the fact that she slept - she ALWAYS slept. We would fuck, we would cuddle and she would fall asleep, half on top of me and clinging like a barnacle.
It was unnerving at first, but I grew to like it. She would sleep and I could count the ceiling tiles, make to do lists, and categorize her dreams. I never had to endure morning after small talk, the whole 'what are you doing today' and 'when should we do this again'. I could get dressed in the dark, make myself a snack, gie her a kiss goodnight (or good day, if I put it off long enough).

And then I could spend the day convincing myself it didn't mean anything.

The Past

He said they couldn't marry until the house was finished. So every day that summer, she brought him coffee, then lemonade, then cold beer. She watched while he dug the cellar, then lay down the floor, then put up walls, then raised the roof. And when the windows had glass and the door had a knob, they were married in the backyard, under the elm that had brought them there. When a rain storm blew up during their vows, they said 'I do' in the kitchen, surrounded by family and electric appliances. Thunder struck as they added their names to the family who had started their marriage in the bed her grandfather had built for her grandmother. A rain-soaked sun rose over the labour of his love and the world was a glittering representation of their incandescent happiness.
They should have known it couldn't last.

The Future pt2

River & Indigo
2 peas in a far out pod
Growing up on the back of a Great Dane
With the mountains as their backyard
And a bagel truck as their playground

The Future pt1

I know it's not very nice
but I revel in the looks
the ones when we talk about our plans
The 'is this a joke? Should I laugh along?'
The shoulder pats and 'whatever you say,
You Crazy Kids.'
Or maybe I just log for the part that comes after
the linked hands and shared look
A Promise Reaffirmed