Anthem

I really wish that this was fictional writing like most everything else in this blog.

I hear the Anthem, our National Anthem
And I can feel the bile rise.

Sharon drove trucks her whole life;
Back and fourth over hundreds of miles
She saw our entire country and
Loved what she saw.
She worked and saved and slaved
To meet the meritocracy's demands
And finally could afford her lands:
No electricty, no plumbing but hers.
She bred & sold hoofstock;
(Nothing I could agree with ethically
But I could admire her hard work).
She embodied the elusive "American Dream"
That says we must start from the bottom
And struggle to the top if we want
The more elusive happiness.

Land of the free, land of the free
She was living in the land of the free.

Sharon was a lesbian and her partner
Died of breast cancer.
They'd built the farm together
Like a classic old-West pioneer couple.
I say partner because love is not love
In the land of the free
Unless it is sterile and Christian
So they were never wed.
But still she loved her country
Because she was living in the land of the free.

They say those despots in sweltering, faraway places
Will impose their will
Take your land
Crush your freedoms.
Who is the despot who came to Sharon's farm
The one she worked for all her life
The place where she built her dreams
And kept alive the spirit of her dearly departed?
Who was it who whispered the curse of Progress
The sound of which is not marked by marching forward footsteps
But by the wails of dreams trampled in its wake?
Eminent Domain, they call it
Because in America, we use fancy words
As a mask for our disgraces.

Because in America
A road or strip mall or housing development
Is more important than the American Dream.

Land of the free, land of the free
Unless you are some trifling little person
With a farm and a memory and a dream
Then you're just a casualty donning fresh pavement.

Yeah, I hear the Anthem, our National Anthem
And I can feel the bile rise.

Ownership

I haven't produced any writing in a while now but I had the idea for this short little piece while driving home from school and had to punch it out. It is a VERY rough draft, but I'm quite pleased with it overall.

When they had started dating last year, he'd pulled the ornate silver ring from his middle finger and placed it in the palm of her hand. It was so large that she probably could have fit three of her fingers into it; he gave her a chain so that she could wear it around her neck. "This way," he explained, "you'll always be reminded that you belong to me." At the time she had thought this was very romantic, but more and more she could see the ring for what it was: territorial pissings, a claim of ownership. The symbolism of the chain and that large heavy ring that struck her in the chest with every step could not possibly have been more blatant.

She'd removed the chain once to take a shower and neglected to return it before heading out to the movies with a group of friends. When she arrived at his apartment later that night, he'd towered over her until the wall at her back seemed less imposing and demanded to know who she was with and why she wasn't wearing his ring. Now she wore it every day, almost afraid to remove it for even an instant.

He'd never threatened her outright with violence, but the way his massive hand swallowed hers whenever he clasped it seemed like a reminder that he could make her vanish just as easily. Something in the way his body pinned hers to the bed when they made love - or more aptly fucked - made her heart pound frantically against her ribs like a caged bird. When he forced his mouth over hers, choked her with a probing tongue, she felt like she was drowning. More and more, when in darkened rooms he trapped her in his embrace and whispered, "I love you," she got the impression that what he actually meant was, "I own you."

Socks

Here's a fun experiment - free-flow of thoughts with disregard to grammar from a perspective that isn't your own. I'm picturing, personally, a really tall, quiet, perhaps not too attractive and very rural looking guy with big, rough hands and a penchant for violence - what do you think?

___She's lying down next to me on the bed with her soft white skin all bare and glistening with sweat. I can hear her breathing and it's that deep, rumbling, contented purr that women get sometimes when the sex is good. It's a dangerous kind of breathing because women think an orgasm means eternal love half the time, and I reckon that's about what's going through her head the way her fingertips are slowly tracing up and down my forearm. It kindof tickles, kindof snags those coarse dark hairs that look primal next to her smooth porcelain flesh.
___I don't like this petting business, makes me feel a bit like a dog, which ain't right because she's the one with the dog look in her big brown eyes. It's a pleading hungry look, a sad desperate animal look, a sniveling seeking affection look. I really don't like that; it means she expects me to say something sappy-sweet now, like I love her, and give her one of those tacky little kisses on the forehead that women get all stupid about.
___Me, I'm just wondering how long I can keep this up before she goes from puppy love to snarling bitch and kicks me out of her apartment, me hallway-standing like a damn fool in my boxers with a ball of clothing in my arms, her howling like a banshee while the neighbors make no effort to politely look away.
___Probably won't get both of my socks back, never do. Lonely single gals like her, they probably have a whole heap of lonely single socks in their apartment, all different kinds of socks from all different kinds of men. Because they're just hoping to find a pair of socks that'll stay for more than just the night.

Songspired! "You Look Like I Need A Drink"

Songspiration – writing inspired by music, incorporating lyrics! This is based on "You Look Like I Need A Drink" by Against Me! Lyrics are italicised. It starts with lyrics, ends with lyrics, and has some thrown in the middle.

In the closest alley,
in the first doorway,
he pushed up against her
and closed his eyes.

___The street lights cast everything in a sickly yellow glow, throwing shadows of trashcans and cardboard boxes long across the filthy concrete. It was late enough that even the hustle and bustle of the city had died down sufficiently for long stretches of near-silence, in which the only sounds were the rustle of crumpled newspaper on pavement whenever the wind blew, or the wail of a distant siren. With her body pressed tightly to his, he could hear her soft exhalations and feel the strumming of her heartbeat against his chest. His fingers traced her spine through the thin fabric of a well worn blouse as he touched his forehead to hers. Her breath was tainted by the reek of alcohol as she craned her neck to kiss him, groping at the front of his jeans. He shuddered, pulling back enough to gingerly stroke her jaw line with his fingertips. He said,
___“This is probably the worst decision that I’ve ever made,” brushing her lips with one thumb as she pushed her back against the door until it yeilded, pulling him into a dimly lit hallway with a sly grin. Behind her tired, bloodshot eyes and teeth discolored by negligence, he fancied he saw something beautiful as she laughed and smiled, and said,
___“I’m sure you do this all the time, right?”
___Through the thin walls, the sound of a baby's crying was audible; it did not cry out for long as though already resigned to being ignored, and they disregarded it in turn. In the stairwell, walls pocked with damage and scrawled with graffiti, he ground his hips to hers. Bathed in wan and flickering light, she wrapped her legs around his waist so that her ratty little black skirt rode up to leave her pale ass bare. Their mouths were sloppily fixed together, too rushed and unfamiliar. An erection only marginally firm from drunkenness prodded blindly against her groin, a friction of jeans against scant lace. She pulled her mouth from his, lipstick smeared half across her cheek to match the runny mascara that darkened the corners of her eyes.
___"Wait, wait - let's do some shit first," she rasped into his ear, kissing his earlobe as she spoke. Her nuzzled her neck, thrusting against her once more, and she slapped his chest in protest.
___"Seriously, you said you had some."
___He huffed frustration and pushed back using both hands against the grimy wall, letting her untwine her legs as he felt around in the back pockets of his jeans. The baggie, half-empty, contained a light brown powder that bore the acidic scent of vinegar when he carefully pulled it open. Her eyes were more desirous at the sight of the dope than they had been as they kissed. She reached for the tightly rolled dollar bill clutched between his two fingers like a cigarette, and he pulled away, a face that had been flirtatious now hardened against her.
___"It's my stuff, I hit it first."
___He inserted the rolled bill into his left nostril, lowering his head and raising the baggie until the two met then taking in a quick snort. He withdrew, rubbing his nostril and sniffling, eyes already working towards that distant, glazed look as he extended both in her direction. She went through the motions with rehearsed precision, clearly a regular user, but took a much deeper hit than he had. Her dark brown eyes rolled back in her head and her breath shuddered out in one great rush before she pitched forward. Reflexes slowed by the dope, he reached to catch her arm and missed.
___Down, down, down, so soft of a sound - her head hit the edge of the stairs, bounced once, struck again. There was no bleeding, just a wet pop, and then she sprawled motionless on the floor. Eyes wild with whites showing all around, he knelt beside her in a panic, shaking her thin shoulders in desperation.
___"Get up!" Her head lolled limply, face an expressionless mask. "Get up - please start breathing!"

And the moment will come
when you finally realize
the results of decisions
and choices in your life.
Can you hear it all coming back after you?

The (Unwritten) Death of Sreya Bahari

This is half of a larger piece posted at Tower that permitted me to write a very personal 3rd person perspective of the death of a crucial character in my book, Sreya Bahari. Only the aftermath of her death is observed in the book since it is written from the first person perspective of another character, but the moments here from Sreya's perspective are in keeping with what Trent experiences upon entering the territory and finding her.
I considered posting the whole piece, but it is very graphically violent and posting it so publically was against my better judgement. So, this occurs after Sreya has awoken post-skinning on the verge of death. It's still pretty disturbing so if things of this sort do not appeal to you, please reconsider reading. Most of the terminology also probably makes no sense without the background of the rest of the novel. And oh - the full texted started with "Sreya Bahari was not dying... yet." if you are pondering the wording of the last few sentences.
Ok, side notes are over. I'd say enjoy but that's hardly the right word.

___Sreya didn't recall any sensation of opening her eyes, but she found herself staring out at rocks spattered in dried blood through vision narrowed to tunnels by hypoxia nonetheless. The early morning sun filtered down brighter than it ought to on the territory, and it took a moment for her to realize that this was due to an absence of shade; the trees had been burned to blackened spires pointing like accusatory skeletal fingers at the heavens: why us!? There was a haze in the air, a few smoldering embers on the fringes of the rendezvous still leaking feeble clouds of dark smoke - this she heard and smelled more than saw, unable to turn her head to observe the carnage. Perhaps in this aspect, shock was mercy, for the sights all around would have been enough to crush the very soul of a matriarch.
___Her body felt cold and numb, and even to her own senses her heartbeat was weak and erratic, breaths too shallow and gurgling; Sreya mused that, were she brought to Wild Woods, she would be very much concerned about the survival of herself. The flies were aware of it; as the day warmed with the rising sun, they started to gather in swarming hordes, hovering over her body hesitantly as if wondering if they could land without risk. I heard a fly buzz... and she may have laughed ironically had she the strength for it. Any delirious humor was promptly erased as she watched one circle lower, so close to her eye that she could keenly see its iridescent sides shining blue and green in the sunlight. It moved to land, and she reflexively blinked - or should have, but nothing happened. Its feet touched the surface of her eye, tongue probing, antennae twitching. Regurgitated saliva pooled against her cornea, her eye watered with discomfort, but no lid fell in protection. Only then did she remember the sensation of the flint's blade sliding beneath her skin...
___Oh god. Oh GOD! Her frightened eyes rolled artificially wide from the absence of surrounding skin as the fly alighted. They fell over a forearm stripped nearly to muscle, smooth handiwork, the kind you saw of professional furriers. At her naked elbow, bands of striated bright white clung over corded red - was it the ulnar collateral ligament? The realization was so horrific that it stunned her; she did not cry out in pain, didn't tremble or struggle. Who knows if shock would have allowed it, anyways. Instead she floated in precious numbness, immersed in the surreal feeling of her fleshless body slowly dying.
___How many minutes, hours, eternities passed? There was a sudden disturbance in the clan's espiritus that roused her from the nebulous gray of semi-consciousness. The many new energies, filled with fresh confusion, pain, fury,and sorrow, stirred abruptly, filling the air with an uncomfortable sensation akin to invisible hands charged with electricity groping frantically at one's body - like ghosts seeking a host. This milling, tumultuous presence crescendoed as the sound of footsteps became audible on the charred soil. The bloodied, battered holes in her snout where there once had been nostrils sucked in shallow breaths, attempting to smell whomever was approaching. Therian - she could detect wolf, and terror anew sharpened her senses, for this was now a scent she associated with the most profound of traumas in her life. Her muscles trembled, energy fought to rally, but she could not flee, could not fight.
___The increasing cadence of Sreya's frightened heart beats only spirited her more quickly towards death. One lung was collapsed and the other fast approaching the same fate as blood pooled in the recumbent chest cavity. The rising pulse demanded more oxygen, oxygen the body could not provide, and rushed blood to the giant singular wound that her body had become. She could barely register her surroundings as a shadow fell over her, but she growled low in her throat, ready to use the last tattered remnants of her strength to fight back if need be. The muscles of her mouth attempted to pull themselves into a defiant snarl as the werewolf crouched at her side, hands poised over her body to inflict more harm.
___The werewolf... he smelled of hyena, as well. The espiritus calmed in his presence, humming curiously, milling and coiling between them as though confused in their loyalties. He extended one trembling hand, a human hand with elegant dark-skinned fingers, and brushed a tiny scrap of black fur left behind on the back of her hand. Immediate electricity - her senses were flooded with the smell of damp moss, rotting deciduous leaves, the crisp chill of mountain air. This melted to something sweltering and foreign, a feline musk, and now the familiar wan of sun-dried savanna grasses and dung from large herbivores. That was signature to only one therian that she knew; Trent had come to the clan's territory, after all.
___Someone was shouting, a wild, frantic flurry of words, profanity and sobs intermingled. It sounded distant, like someone screaming from the bowels of a cave. Energy heated the air until it felt as though the forest were aflame once more. Her breaths were growing more difficult, her pulse more sluggish. With the narrow field of her vision fading by the moment, she couldn't make sense of what was going on. Sensation was all but gone, but she thought she felt firm hands upon her raw cheeks. Intense dark eyes glossed over with tears and raw with agony slowly dissolved from her sight, and like a spectral whisper despite it being shouted in her face, she heard the words "I love you." She wished she could respond, tried to force the words.
___And then - Sreya Bahari was dying. Her other lung caved. No smell. No sight. No sound. Her pulse stuttered. Her heart stopped. Something battered and worn slumped lifeless to the rocks, but what joined the espiritus in that moment was fierce and vivacious, like the wilds of Nigeria where it had been Born.

Almost Like Wilderness / All He Asked For

Two short, boring, pretentious little things.

Almost Like Wilderness
___It was unseasonably warm that day; the ice had begun to melt where it lay exposed to the sun's abuse on the sandy shoreline. The melt-off created intricate branching streams in the fine earth, a microcosm for the larger ecosystem around him. His feet left their mark on the damp ground as he paced the water's edge, listening to the creak of the ice as it struggled to hold together in a solid mass amid the strain of its liquid progenitor shifting below. The wind howled over the peaks of the trees on the opposite shore, carrying the heavy scent of pine in the cool, crisp air. This was the kind of day that made him feel alive.
___A raven croaked from its perch at the apex of a dead tree, a gnarled spire of a thing, long struck dead by lightening but still very much a host to life. The clever bird regarded him with a wary eye, cautious enough to watch but not such a slave to instinct as to flee with no tangible threat like the ducks flushed from the reeds earlier by his presence. He raised his binoculars to his eyes to catch a better glimpse of the magnificent bird, black as the river styx yet untouched, in his mind, by any of the dark symbolism attributed to the species. He'd loved ravens since he was a young boy growing up in rural Canada, and seeing one here in New York was a rare treat.
___It was almost possible to believe, surrounded by forest and lake, nestled in winter's frigid embrace, that he was back home in those miles of untouched wilderness. Though he had a fine sense of hearing, he could not detect the busy rumble of cars on the freeway beyond. It was a time of year and state of economy where plane flights were rare, so the roar of jet engines did not damn the solitude. The only hint of humanity was the quiet crinkle of a discarded candy wrapper, half mired in mud, the rest flapping in the breeze. He plucked the trash from the earth, fancying himself an anthropologist studying the relics of a foreign culture in a moment of mirth before crumpling it into its pocket for later disposal.

All He Asked For
___ When he watched her, it was through the convex glass of an old computer monitor's screen, the glow emanating from the machine bright like her smile but colder, more distant. She had a Facebook page that unlike his had new comments from friends almost daily - real friends, not the near-strangers from high school added only for fear of looking rude declining. Those friends elicited a feeling in him somewhat akin to jealousy, though not the possessive sort of a boyfriend, nor the fear that someone else may snatch her up. His was the wistful type spawned from wishing he'd been cast as a more prominent character in the fantastic movie of her life, privy to each inside joke and shared memory.
___ South America, Japan, Oregon, Alaska - she flew free-spirited and uninhibited like a bird from continent to continent, chasing her dreams unbridled as a wild mustang. (She also made him think of stupid, flowery animal analogies). Unbound by the shackles of conformity and throwing all anxious, well-planned cautions to the wind, she did not work towards her goals, but lived towards them. He almost felt embarrassed when she asked how he enjoyed his regimental yearly trips to Florida; it was like God asking a scientist about his clumsy stabs at creation.
___ She asked these question on the same screen through which he observed her, for she rarely lingered for long in the state where they had met, his home and her launchpad. This year, she was attending college in Berlin, and as always he felt that same dull ache in his chest that accompanied the knowledge that he would spend time with her, at best, once annually. This suffering was endured in silence, of course; while other men might proclaim their love and insist she stay in their selfish company, his love was embodied through the simple joy he took in knowing that she was doing what made her happiest. Even if, by some disaster, she should elect to break ties, he knew he could be content with the mere thought that she was alive and in the world. This knowledge, and the rare glimpse of her smiling face through his computer screen, was all he asked for.

Sreya's Living Room

A fun little snippet from Raze. Enjoy.

___The walls were adventurous, a blue that suggested the sort of free-spirited joy symbolized by the sky it shared its color with. While my walls were naked and exposed, hers were dressed in ornate wooden wall hangings that smacked of tribalism, photos of smiling family members, even an artistic print by Sue Coe. On the mantle, arranged neatly but in no particular order, were little multi-colored clay statues from South America, exaggerated black and tank wood carvings from Africa, and stone fetishes reflecting the Native Americans. Centered on the coffee table, a very south-western terra cotta vase held unique bird feathers in place of flowers. Where one might expect a coaster on the end table, there was only the fossilized molar of some prehistoric behemoth, utterly unhelpful for the task of protecting finish and not particularly caring.
___Only the furniture was remotely tame, quality oak woodwork and plush tan couches that went nicely with the blue paint. She'd made these her own with quirky, flamboyant throw pillows from India, their festive colors and beadwork forcing the shy khaki hues behind them into submission. The centerpiece of most American living rooms was, however, absent: she had no television, only a well stocked book case cluttered with more volumes than the shelves were designed to support such that the overflow was heaped atop and alongside their more fortunate brethren. A spill of pothos grew wildly all over the shelf, like a fierce jungle vine cloaking ruins of a literary jungle. The room was schematically incoherent, aesthetically discordant, and utterly fantastic.

A Few Short, Atypical Pieces

Letter Unsent
I am "teh sucks" at writing anything romantic, but part of my novel demands it. This was tremendously uncomfortable to write, and a bit of a departure from my typical style, so I'm hoping that by pushing my limits as a writer, I captured a sense of love effectively.

___Heaven could be, for me, just another evening online, chatting about science or ethics or politics, feeling like you’re close even when you’re hundreds of miles away. Memories like swimming in the creek on hot summer days, building fires with sticks and tinder on cold winter nights, or flint napping in a gorge we're not even allowed in give me little glimpses of what happy might be. I fondly recall protest signs and leaflets, two twin thorns in the side of the circus, rodeo, war. Bushwhacking through brambles with a smile on your face, offering me first scavenge on a deer skeleton, or playing your didgeridoo - how could I not be dazzled? My undignified enthusiasm in a darkened bedroom while David Attenborough spoke of pelicans was shameless, I admit, but was elated to have your attention.
___I vividly recall the first weeks after I met you, fawning like a school girl for the first time in my life at your passion, your knowledge, and the free-spirited joy you exuded. That intensity of attraction hasn’t waned at all some eight years later, only growing despite all logic. I’ve never been one to indulge in those foolish feminine fantasies of things that will never be, yet I can imagine leaning close by your side, binoculars in hand, bird watching on the coast of Oregon. I fancy congratulating you about new grants and publications for years to come. I dare to think, despite myself, of licking vegan cake batter from your fingertips in the kind of home that has scores of books and not one television.
___But that is all I dare to pursue - the rare privilege of your company when circumstance permits and these silly fantasies that are, like so much else, unrealized and unrequited. For the one thing more terrifying than the realization that I can’t forever be the eager supporting cast in the play of your life is the thought of cutting short our precious friendship by pushing the issue. And so you remain my dear beloved friend.


Now - crappy AR poetry! (By poetry I mean lazy, pretentious crap that could be better conveyed in prose!)

The Greatest Show on Earth
How is it "family fun"
if our families were destroyed?
Can this be "conservation"
when they tore us from the wild?
How are we "educational"
in any lesson but callousness?
What is "humane training"
with whips and bullhooks in plain sight?
How can you marvel at our intelligence
but still treat us like "dumb animals?"
How are we not enslaved
when you call yourselves "masters?"
So
How is this justifiable?

Death of a Goldfish, Birth Of A Liberationist
Our neighbors had a tiny golden captive
in round glass confines on their patio.
The bright glow cooked him daily,
the dark chill froze him nightly.
Marinated in waste
he circled endlessly.

I watched his gasping, gulping breaths
with little else but empathy.
The glass reflected my inaction:
something hideous, something monstrous.

Pleather shoes and hemp purses,
tofu dinners and protest signs.
I talked a lot of "rights."
I made no "rights."

Every day the little fish suffered
until his belly greeted the sky.
"Free at last, free at last!"
And something deep inside me snapped.

In youth's protean morality
I rejected "theft" and "property;"
Inapplicable to sentient life
for they only lead to sentient death
My outrage spilled fourth like water
blooming 'round shards of broken glass
scattered across the patio floor.

A fledgling abolitionist
took wing liberationist.
I was my brother's keeper;
now I am his warrior.
I don't talk "rights."
I make rights.

Until every cage bowl is empty.

Heartache in the Heartland

This is actually an RP post that I wrote a while back, but enjoyed enough that I felt it belonged here. It demands explanation before reading, however. The RPG this post is taken from is called Contretemps, part of Stan's wonderful site All The Little Branches. In Contretemps, all creatures of the earth have had their physical and behavioral aspects mixed due to a scientific experiment gone tremendously wrong. Brock Hanover, our protagonist, found himself hybridized with a sheep - which is not nearly as bad as what happened to his wife, who blended very unsuccessfully with a deep-sea dwelling fish. The result, well... you'll see.

The rolling fields that stretched vast around Brock Hanover were painted in graceful strokes of golden brilliance in the light of the setting sun. A gentle breeze rustled through the tall grass, a million tiny voices whispering the intimacy of their gingerly touching stalks. Wild flowers of blue, red, and gold nervously raised their colorful faces to the sky, just barely peering out from between the protective embrace of the wheat like wayward children. Brock stooped over, the chitinous black tips of his fingers tenderly grasping the stem of a cornflower before plucking it free and moving it carefully to his other hand, where a soft, bright bundle of black-eyed susans, daisies, baby's breath, and cosmos stood in contrast to his rough, dark skin. Picking another cornflower, he held this specimen to his flattened ovine nose as he began to walk, inhaling deeply with his eyelids fluttering slightly shut in the rapture of a memory. Cornflowers were always her favorite, simple and beautiful just like she had been.

In his mind's eye, he pictured the first day they had met. He was driving down rural route 40, the day of a sunset much like this one but over the halcyon bluegrass fields of Kentucky instead. It was so hot out that even at that late hour, shimmering waves crept from the asphalt, creating optical illusions that were the only interesting thing around on the flat, featureless stretch of highway. Her car, a little red pick-up, had taken a nose dive into an irrigation ditch, its back wheels raised off the ground still spinning as he pulled the truck over to assist the woman hunkered in the grass nearby. He'd been terrified that she may have been thrown from the vehicle, the way her body convulsed from its seated position on the ground, but when he asked "M'am, are you alright?" she only let out a sob and presented the body of the bird she'd been swerving to miss when she lost control of the vehicle. It was a little eastern meadowlark, common around those parts, but you'd think she'd just run over a child the way she grasped it tenderly, stroking the soft feathers on its head as he dug a little grave alongside the road at her insistence.

Then like a powder keg ignited, the happy memory was blown apart by more recent recollections of digging graves. Every grim shovelful was engraved in his memory, the sound of the metal biting into the dry summer soil, its occasional scrape against root or rock. The depth, though he made no measurement, was as precise in his mind as if he'd carefully blue-printed it before hand; he remembered that no matter how deeply he dug, it just didn't seem deep enough. He'd pulled his shoulder badly that day, frantically pitching shovel fulls of earth, not wanting to wake in the morning with a reminder more horrible than that solemn mound of dirt left behind by prowling scavengers. Oh, the awful noise of the cloth-wrapped body touching the soil, sounding heavy no matter how gently he lowered it. God! Could anyone ever really be the same again?

He mediated on the thought of her smiling face, her curly blond hair falling in front of her eyes over and over as she tried to tuck it back without using her hands clad in dirty gardening gloves. Brock could remember kneeling down and tucking those rich golden locks behind her ears, kissing her gently on the forehead while she smiled... and he remembered the sound of the shotgun blast before that same forehead, now transformed into wet and leathery gray flesh, exploded all over their kitchen floor. Bits of skull, some human, some animal, scattered across the linoleum, sharp and delicate and all too white in the red lake that bloomed around his feet. It reminded him of shattered porcelain, like the plate he'd broken the one time they really fought. Together, they'd pieced it back together and hung it over their bed that night, a reminder that no matter how hard it got, their bond would never be broken like that. Wives, you couldn't put back together so easily - he found this out in the desperate moments after he relieved her suffering in which he tried anything, everything to undo what he'd just done, crying on the floor hugging her body as he tried to hold bloody gobs of pinkish-gray brain tissue back in place with slippery fingertips too small for the size of the hole in her skull. ((run on sentence ftw!))

Tears stung Hanover's eyes, streaking down the patches of odd black flesh in the curve of his newly prominent snout as he came to stop over the obscene mound of dirt below a willow tree adjacent to the small goldfish pond in their back yard. The fish moved silently beneath the surface, scales glimmering in the fading sunlight. The bouquet of flowers in his hand was wilting by then, stems crushed by the clenching of his fists in the throes of the awful memory. He stood over his wife's makeshift grave with its haphazard oak branch cross for a long moment as the shadows began to engulf their little yard, his little yard now. Gently placing the bouquet to the dirt, he twirled the solitary cornflower in his fingertips for a moment before letting it join its companions. The wind swayed the long, drooping branches of the weeping willow so that they brushed gently against the weeping man as a meadowlark cried out from the field beyond.

Carpe Eventus

Carpe Eventus
By Lauren Weeks

Today, he’d fight to protect his country
Today, he’d fight to defend his country
He bowed his head and prayed to God
He bowed to the earth and prayed to Allah
He called his wife and told her to be brave
He kissed his wife and told her to be brave
He got in the Humvee with his men
He strapped the bomb to his chest alone
He entered Fallujah with his rifle
He entered Fallujah with his detonator
In his pocket was a photo of his daughter
In his pocket was a photo of his son
He saw an insurgent standing by the building
He saw a soldier approaching gun in hand

In the thunder of adrenaline
With sweat drenched brows
Their eyes met
And each thought
“Seize this moment, before it seizes you!”

He reached for his trigger
He reached for his switch
A bullet cut through the air
An explosion ignited the air
Imperialist or liberator
Terrorist or martyr

In the end it’s just humanity
Screaming bleeding on the ground

He feebly clutched his daughter’s photo
He feebly clutched his son’s photo
He prayed to God
He prayed to Allah

And for once, between enemies
A perfect understanding.


I wrote this poem for my Forms of Literature class. We had to write a poem that embodied the spirit of seizing the moment, and I asked my teacher if it would be acceptable to depart from the typical themes of spontaneous cheer in this genre for something a little more contemporary, serious, and meaningful. She approved, and the result was this poem. My goal, in addition to a new take on the "carpe diem" theme as something more in the vein of a single moment having life altering consequences, was to write a poem about war that was not biased and that was deeply human. If I may speak in the collective we and us representing the entire global community, not any one particular side: I think war today has a distance and anonymity that makes it easier for us to enthusiastically embrace an "us vs. them" mentality, reducing real human struggle down to something as casual and pedestrian as cheering for one's sport's team. We make war into a means to an end or a cause to rally behind or against but rarely do we really sit down and think about the individual cost to human life. When we do, it is tainted with bias in favor of our outlook on the war itself and our feelings about the soldiers on both sides. This poem sought to whittle war down to what it really is: human beings fighting and killing one another for the similar motive of what they believe to be the right thing to do. Maybe it's a bit cliche, but I enjoyed writing it, and I hope you enjoy reading it.