We spoke of id and ego while the world burned.
I woke to the heat. I felt it in me.
It was trapped between my skin and bones.
I was solid and melting. My body wept sweat.
And you mentioned Freud as you watched me
bury my head in a pillow, seeking to dry my skin
on the yellowed pillowcase and then defend my actions,
an innocent accused of innuendo.
Outside the silence sat and waited.
The sounds of the day, still muted in the heat,
escaped our attention. I lay back and let my skin
dissolve into the salty liquid that lay beneath.
I heard you laugh, then grow still
until only the silence remained.

Notes:
This is a short, rough, piece that was inspired by our weather today. It needs a lot of polishing but I promised to post more work or works in progress. Keep in mind that anything I post here is probably off-the-cuff and not something I would consider submitting. This is my scratch pad, of sorts, but it does give and idea of my work and my thoughts. Plus, we need more poetry and fiction out there. Preferably, off the web.

But that is my next project!

So what now? The handle is cold and damp
and the water runs a little too fast for the drain.
A puddle begins to gather in the sink basin
and I look away from the face,
from the eyes looking for an answer.
I can tell you the meaning of a text and
I can sometimes bend words
in just the right way to say something real
but I have nothing. No answer.
I should be afraid or angry.
I should yell, scream, cry, or shout.
I should do something.
So I cup my hands, reach down, and
catch the cold water as it pours out.
In a moment the captured water fills
my hands and overflows into the basin
below. I have changed almost nothing.
The water still flows as it has before
but I am a part of it now.
Maybe, just maybe, that can be enough.

“And then I left,” she said rather smartly to the stuffed bear who sat next to her on the bed. “Mrs. Smithson said she looked everywhere for me but I told her not to fib. I was in that room reading my book all day and she never looked in there so she didn’t look everywhere.”

Abigail paused slightly and patted the bear. It’s fur was rough and scraggled. The yellow fabric was worn and and it had only one eye which stared blankly at the girl as she told her tale. Her voice was barely a whisper now. “That was when Mrs. Smithson called Mr. Draper to come and get me.” She grabbed the bear and wrapped it in her arms. Its fur, as it had done so many times before, absorbed the quiet tears that fell from her eyes. “She didn’t know we had run away but she does now. I’m sorry Teddy but we can never go back. No, never…”

She laid down on the bed and looked out through a hole in the boarded window. The moon had risen and its light made her smile. “See, Teddy, we still have a nightlight. I told you.” She slept then and the moon looked down upon the her with its one, lonely, eye.

She moved through gray half-lighted hallways and passed by tall white doors where muffled voices spoke of things she had yet to explore. Behind her, fading in the distance, someone called. They were looking for her. She pressed herself against the slick white walls of painted concrete and looked for a door that offered silence and an empty place to hide while, above her, a large round clock kept a steady time.

The click clack of uniformed shoes on hard floors pressed her to action. It all came as a rush of movement. There was her hand on the doorknob. She felt it turn and pushed. The door opened slowly and she almost screamed as she drove herself against it. The click clack got louder, time on the clock ticking down. She almost stumbled as she slipped inside the room letting the door close with only the smallest of clicks. She turned then smiling in quiet triumph at the straight lines of empty desks. For their part, the desks seemed to regard her with silent equanimity as if they were still deciding what to do with her.

Her heart was beating a bit faster now. It was a feeling she was begining to like.

“Abigail,” it had been a while since she had spoken and her voice was softer than she expected.

“Miss, you’re going to have to speak up,” his voice teetered on the edge of annoyance.

“Sorry. Yes. My name is Abigail. Abigail Grey.” The man made a series of marks on his paper. She was cataloged and categorized and an old women who smelled of boiled beets and cigarettes took her photograph. It was somewhere between the click and the bright flash that Abigail decided she didn’t like this place and she resolved to leave. The old woman turned from the machine smiling through crooked teeth.

Abigail was already gone.

Dawn entered the room as slices of light that slid in between the wooden boards on the windows. The musty smell of dust, mildew, and neglect filled the air and the slight young girl who had sat up with a start coughed a little as she looked around.

This was not the usual place.

She peeled back the tattered covers, a quilt of light red, blue and yellow patches that seemed to crumble in her hands and slid her feet into her shoes – black, patent leather, polished to a shine – that had been carefully placed by the edge of the bed so that she need never touch the floor. She stood and let the silence of the place hold her. She breathed deep, turned and pulled a small mirror from her makeshift pillow, a backpack adorned with the cracked and faded image of a cartoon giraffe. She looked into the mirror, into the pale blue eyes that stared back at her.

“Abigail. My name is Abigail.”

“Everything must be in its place,” the teacher replied, “and every piece must fit as it should. You know how they fit. Now do it right. Don’t make me call your mother, again.”

The girl paused, tears still welling in her eyes. When they first called her mother she was glad they did. Her mother had always been there for her and she expected her teacher and principal would soon get a very stern talking to like she did when she made her sand castles in the living room using up the last of her mothers potting soil. Things were different, though. This school was different. “You’re there to learn, Abigail,” her mother was angry with her but there was tremor in her voice as well. Abigail didn’t know that parents could be afraid or else she may recognized it. “Stop playing foolish games and do the work. If you want to be anything you have to follow instructions.” She had tried to argue. She tried to tell her mother that the pictures in her head were so much more beautiful and that she could make things, real things that shimmered like butterflies and moved and danced. Her mother wouldn’t listen, though. “Please, Abby, enough with this foolishness. Just do what Mrs. Anders tells you.”

And there Mrs. Anders was, glaring down at the girl daring her to break the rules. Abigail turned the pieces over and slid them together until a soft click was heard. The class cheered and Mrs. Anders actually smiled. “See my dear, you could do it. I knew you could. You get a gold star. I am sure your mother will be quite proud.”

Abigail smiled happily and took her gold star from Mrs. Anders. She placed carefully in the square on her chart and took her seat.

Today was going to be a good day.

“Why?”

I would have told him the answer, too, if I had any clue as to what it was. Instead, I remained silent. After all, what could I say that hadn’t already been said? The floor, all tile and linoleum, was icy cold and unswept. Small specks of sand and dirt clung to Sam’s feet as he walked toward the old bathroom. There was a gun on the nightstand. It was empty but the metal barrel still flickered ominously in the dawn’s light. Somewhere, I heard a wracking, hacking, cough that seemed to echo from every part of the old motel in which we were staying.

Why, indeed?

The water from the shower kicked on and Sam let it run for a full minute before the rusty red from the pipes finally cleared away. At least it was hot. Small bits of steam rose and obscured the bathroom. Everything became wet and the cold of the floor quickly spread to faucet handles and walls. The steam warmed the air, though, and Sam breathed it in with slow, steady, breaths. This was meditation

..and preparation.

With that cheerful thought in mind, I almost think of tossing my meal and heading upstairs. I think it would be easier than to watch this. I am hungry, though, and I can’t will myself to throw away food simply due to my own frustration. I sit at a table far removed from the rest, pull my sandwich out of the brown paper bag I’ve been carrying with me and commence eating.

They all talk at once. I listen and I watch and I catalog a hundred conversations about nothing. Jim is ranting about politics, George rambles on about his ongoing home repairs while Angie and Chad are whispering in the back almost too conspiratorially considering they are both married and not to each other. This latter issue would count as gossip here. I can already see the social butterflies, more vampires than butterflies, watching closely.

I know I should get up and leave. Upstairs there is nothing to do but log into the same systems and do the same thing I have been doing. The new technology has left us behind. Now, I work on 10 yr. old platforms that just won’t die. Now, I watch high school politics play out in a nearly empty cafeteria that used to house hundreds.

This is my life.

And yet, there is always that whisper in my ear. That echo that says,

“It doesn’t have to be…”

I nod. His severe face is a study in practicality and I feel foolish for even airing my complaint. He is right. Who am I to complain? People are starving and dying by the millions all around me and all I can think to do is complain because I am unhappy. It is petty. I can already feel myself resigning to accept what is.

It is at those moments that a small flame sparks as it always has. This small flame that seems so insignificant that it often escapes notice is the core of me. The final remaining vestige of the soul beneath. He lashes out in a sudden almost vicious rage and I turn to face the counselor.

“No,” my voice nearly a whisper, “they are not petty.”

“Oh?” he looks down at me. “You are egotistical enough to place your dissatisfaction on the same level as starvation or death? Perhaps, you are more arrogant than even I imagined.”

I took two steps forward marching towards him as that little flame roared within me. “I believe that death comes in more forms than you imagine. I believe that a person may work for 30 years inside a corporate shell and be dead for most that time. I believe that the one of the greatest crimes is to squander your skill and capabilities in the mindless pursuit of profit. I believe that the world is a better place because of art and literature and that they share an equal playing footing with science and technology. I believe that a body may be fat and full and still hollow and empty and that the starvation of the spirit is a far greater danger than that of physical body. I believe, most of all, that each should follow their passion. The farmer should farm. The builder build. The scientist discover and the artist create.”

I was raging now, my voice rising in a crescendo of righteous anger. “No, sir, I do not consider my problems more pressing than many of those around me, but neither are they petty or trite. The petty are those who cling in abject desperation to the company tit seeking solace only in their own financial well-being.”

“I have been hungry, sir. I have in my life been forced to face nights without food. I am doing the same now. The food I seek is meaning and purpose, the sustenance of the soul. We are starved of it and I, for one, intend to eat my fill once again.”