Drink to This

There's not a lot action in a college campus coffee shop over the summer.  You have your regulars: a mix of people in the community; students who didn't go home for the summer; and the bare bones of the university staff.  You have your occasionals: the awkward teenagers "just checking it out", and their parents, who are eyeing you like you might give them some hint as to what this school does to its students.  You have your flash-floods: the random cheer-leading or band camp- but, as the name implies, they arrive quickly en masse, and then retreat just as quickly into the rest of their summer, where the campus will become, at best, the barely-noticed setting for their awkward sexual-awakenings.

In other words, I spend a lot of time leaning on my broom.  Especially when the manager's not around to chirp, "If there's time to lean, there's time to clean!".  Clean, sure.  But everything's so clean at this point that if I were to take a rag to anything it would be more like polishing.  And "polishing" doesn't make a cute little rhyme, and so I continue to lean, and to observe.

This afternoon, one of the last before the freshman will descend for their orientation, I'm observing one of the regulars as she makes her way across the quad.  I'm pretty sure she's one of the people-in-the-neighborhood, as it were, because she's about twenty years too old to be a student, but she sure as hell isn't a professor.  (Hey, it's a small school- I know most of 'em by sight, even if I'm not in their classes.)  She's particularly fascinating, because over the past couple of months I've watched her sort of... metamorphosize.

In the beginning she cried a lot.  Like, a lot.  But not really sad tears, you know?  More like... really angry tears.  Like crying was her substitute for stabbing.  Which was crazy, because she was definitely not the stabbing sort, to look at her.  I'm taking white capris and loose, flowy tunic tops.  A bit of "statement" jewelry, and mousy-brown hair neatly pinned at the nape of her neck.  Manicured nails, strappy-yet-conservative sandals.  Very suburban-mom-of-teenagers, you know?  Like she should definitely be drinking that nonfat vanilla latte shit.  But she'd come in, get a shot-in-the-dark (black like your bitter heart, I always say), and then sit in the furthermost corner to drink and write in her journal.  And cry.

As the weeks passed, the crying dried up, mostly.  And she started wearing jeans and t-shirts.  And not, like, perfectly-distressed $180 jeans, either.  Thrift store jeans, and no more of that ludicrous statement jewelry, either.  And a pair of shiny new dark green doc martens, which I complimented her on, because I know what a bitch they are to break in.  She gave me this little smile, and for the first time ordered an americano to go with her journaling, which she moved to a couch to do.

That was her standing order for a few more weeks, until she cut her hair off- and I'm not talking your typical mom-cut, either.  She cut it, like, aggressively short.  The sort of short that you cut your hair to give a giant fuck-you to that guy who liked to talk about how feminine long hair is while eyeing another woman.  And she dyed it burgundy, which, granted, is not the most rebellious of shades, in the grand scheme of things, but certainly edgier than a natural color, and I complimented her on that, too.  She gave me a big smile, and ordered a cafe au lait.  Sat right near the counter, too, and even made a little small talk with other patrons.

That was about two weeks ago, and now she's coming across the street, with this long, confident stride much better suited to those green docs, and I can't help but smile.  Lady actually looks happy, for a change.

"Hi Jessi," she says as she walks in.  Not sure when she learned my name, exactly.  Hers is Karen.

"Hey Karen," I say, and I'm about to ask if it'll be the regular when I notice something.

"New ink?" I ask, nodding to her shoulder.  There, peeping out from beneath her black tank top, I can see a bit of dark green script with that shiny look that only fresh tattoos have.

She grins.  Actually grins.

"Just got it yesterday," she says, and pulls the strap aside so I can see the whole thing.  It's her handwriting (after months of seeing her journal, I'd recognize it anywhere) right under her collarbone, right above her heart.  And it's just three words: 

Drink to This

"Nice," I say.  "And just what, exactly, will you be drinking while you drink to this?  Cafe au lait?"

She shakes her head.  "I think it's time to change it up again.  I want to try something totally different."  She tugs her hair nervously.  "What do you suggest?"

"Totally different, eh?"  I look her up and down, considering.  "Given your history, I'm gonna' rule out everything with coffee, then."

"Okay," she nods.  "No coffee.  But I still need my caffeine, so..."

"London Fog," I say.  "Totally different, still caffeinated.  You'll love it."

Another grin.  "I'll drink to that."

***
A recently divorced woman got these three words tattooed on her clavicle.

Still(ed) Life by Krumps

There can be beauty in death.  Sometimes I wonder if that's why the gods made blood so red.

Reverse Course

Think of one dramatic event from your life and write the event backwards.

I sleep.  He tucks me into bed, saying he'll join me soon.  She leaves, promising to be back if we need anything.  They take me home.  I'm glad he wasn't alone.  My husband is there, and my best friend.  I do wake up.  The lights are very bright in the OR, but I don't notice them for long before the darkness returns.  He kisses me.  She brings him to me.  Someone tries to tell me I can't- the other nurse, tone brooking no argument, says she'll find him herself.  I want to see my husband, I plead.  I might not wake up.  I have to sign forms saying I understand I might not wake up. Someone draws him away, to wait for me in the recovery room.  The kind EMT wheels me down corridor after corridor, my husband walking beside me.  They have to take me in for surgery.  We've just pumped a lot of very cold fluid into you.  You will be, he says.  The EMT asks if I'm cold, but I'm not.  I know she will come, so he doesn't have to be alone.  I tell him to update to my boss, and tell my best friend.  I'm okay.  It's okay, I say, voice thready.  I smile.  I open my eyes, and it's my husband.  I can feel the love radiating from the hand, and I think, what a compassionate nurse.  I turn my face to the touch, nuzzling into it.  Things start to come back, but I am so lonely- and then a warm hand touches my bare shoulder, just where it meets the neck.  I am at peace.  Everything is fading, and I think, at least they know I love them.  Textures of rough cloth and smooth cold metal against my naked skin, the slither of tubing, the pierce of many needles.  It's dark- but there is movement in the darkness.  Maybe not entirely lost, tho'- I think I hear my husband screaming at them to do something.  I slump over, consciousness fleeing.  She passes me paperwork to fill out.  I tell the disinterested nurse that I am hemorrhaging.  We make it to the head of the line.  I am feeling weaker.  It seems so unfair to me, to have to wait in line at an emergency room, but I don't want to make trouble.  We have to wait in line.  He wheels me in while my husband parks the car.  We pull up to patient-unloading, and an orderly asks me if I want a wheelchair: I do.  We go, and I text my boss to tell him I may or may not be in tomorrow.  My husband returns home, and I tell him we need to go to the hospital.  I call the nurse-line: they tell me to get to the emergency room.  I'm regretting sending him to the store.  I'm bleeding more- and maybe it's not nothing.  I tell him to go ahead and go to the store.  My husband is worried, but I tell him it's probably nothing; it's not at all uncommon to have bleeding after a miscarriage.  I am bleeding.

Vera, Delilah, and the Rainbow Bridge

(for my son, so that when the day comes, he will maybe understand just a little)

Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Vera.  Vera had a best friend named Delilah, and the two of them loved to go on adventures together- almost as much as they loved one another, which is to say, quit a bit indeed.

One day Vera said to Delilah, "What sort of adventure are we going to have today, Delilah?" and Delilah said, "I do not feel like adventuring today, Vera."

"What do you feel today, Delilah?" asked Vera.

"I feel very tired, Vera.  And of course I feel love that I love you."

"That's okay, Delilah," said Vera.  "We can just sit quietly together, because I feel that I love you, too, and that's enough adventure for me."

The next day, Vera said to Delilah, "What sort of adventure are we going to have today, Delilah?" and Delilah said, "I'm afraid I am still very tired, Vera.  I think I am sick."

Vera threw her arms around Delilah and said, "That's okay, Delilah.  We will sit quietly together for as long as it takes for you to get better."

And that's what they did for a long time, but Delilah never seemed to feel any better.  Then the day came when Delilah said, "Vera, I think I am ready for another adventure, but I need your help."

"Oh Delilah!" said Vera.  "You know I will help you any way I can.  That's what best friends are for!  What sort of adventure are we going to have?"

"We must find the Rainbow Bridge," said Delilah, "and I must cross over it."

"What's on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge?" asked Vera, for she thought it sounded like a magical adventure, indeed.

"New adventures," said Delilah, "and old friends, and many other wonderful things.  And most importantly, once I cross the Rainbow Bridge, I won't be sick anymore."

"Well that sounds like the perfect adventure for today, Delilah.  Here, lean on me and we'll get started."

Delilah did lean on Vera, and although Delilah was very heavy, Vera never once complained- although she did have to take breaks to rest.  This is because although she loved Delilah very, very much, she was only a little girl, and no one- not even the strongest grownup- can be leaned on all the time.  But eventually the two of them found their way to the foot of the Rainbow Bridge.

"Oh my!" said Vera.  "It's even more beautiful than I imagined- but it's so very long that I can't see the other side!  How long will it take us to cross it, Delilah?"

"You cannot cross it, Vera," said Delilah, "Because it's not your time yet.  But I will cross it very swiftly indeed, once I am on it."

"What?" said Vera.  "What do you mean it's not my time?  How will you cross if you do not have me to lean on?  How will you get back?"

"That is the magic of the Rainbow Bridge," said Delilah.  "Once it is your time, the Bridge itself will give you the strength you need to cross over.  But Vera, you must understand- once I have crossed the Rainbow Bridge, I cannot cross back.  I will be on the other side forever."

"Oh no!" said Vera, "I don't want you to go, Delilah!  What good are adventures without you?" and she began to cry.

"Don't cry, Vera.  I love you so much that I will stay if you really want me to," said Delilah, but her voice was sad, and Vera could see how tired she still was.  And Vera remembered what Delilah had told her, about how she would not be sick once she crossed the Rainbow Bridge, and Vera knew she could not ask her friend to stay.

"You said there are old friends on the other side?" Vera asked, wiping her eyes.

"Oh yes," said Delilah.  "Friends I have not seen in many years.  I have missed them since they crossed the Rainbow Bridge, just as you will miss me."

"But they're waiting for you?" asked Vera.

"Oh yes," said Delilah, "Just as I will wait for you."

"And you'll have new adventures together?"

"Oh yes," said Delilah.  "And I will tell them stories about the adventures I had with you, and they will like that."

"And, and will you tell me stories about the adventures you have with them, once it is my time?" asked Vera.

"Oh yes," said Delilah.  "But you must have new adventures so that you can tell me stories, too."

"I will!" said Vera.  "I will have as many wonderful adventures as I can, so that I can tell you many, many wonderful stories once it's my time!"

"I will like that," said Delilah, and gave her friend a kiss.  "I love you very much, Vera."

"I love you very much, Delilah," said Vera, and threw her arms around her best friend one last time.  Then she kissed Delilah on her brow, and stood back to watch as Delilah stepped onto the Rainbow Bridge.

Vera kept right on watching as Delilah stood up straighter than she had for a very long time, and began to walk with a lighter step.  And soon Delilah was running joyfully, faster and faster towards the unseen end, and Vera suddenly realized how much her friend must have been hurting, and she knew she had been right to let her go.

Soon Delilah was out of sight, and Vera had herself a good cry, because even tho' she knew Delilah crossing the Rainbow Bridge had been the right thing, it still hurt to say goodbye to her friend.  And once she was done crying, she splashed some cold water on her face, and turned for home, because she knew her mother and father would be worried if she stayed gone too long.  And she also knew she must get a good night's rest, for tomorrow would bring a new adventure, and she must be ready for it.

Buddies

Wandering Off the Path

I was tidying up some paper files today, and came across something I typed out a year or two ago.  If I recall properly, it was in response to a writing prompt, although I cannot remember precisely how it was worded, or who gave it to me (Adam, maybe?).  I still like the little vignette very much indeed, and since I haven't been able to find it published in a previous blog post, I thought I'd polish it up a bit and share it today.  (There is a bit of a tangential tie in to this post from 2010, which is set further in the future of this Universe, but which also explains one key piece of terminology.)

***

My eldest daughter does not take the results well.

"This is bullshit," she rages, and I wince.  So does the clerk, although surely he is more used to people screaming obscenities than I am.  I have a sudden flashback to Kaia as a toddler, smiling up at me like a miniature sun, her teeth tiny perfect pearls against her smooth dark skin.  "Busha!" she crows, and I know I am going to catch it when her mother hears this exciting new exclamation.

"Ms. Sejoh," says the clerk, eyes carefully avoiding my own.  "Perhaps you'd like to further discuss your questions... in private?"

"No, I don't want to discuss anything 'in private'," she snaps.  "You can explain to me, to both of us, in exquisite detail, just why my father's application has been rejected!"

It isn't really 'my' application, I think to myself.  I'm not the one who submitted it, after all.

The clerk sighs in a way that is meant to be understanding, but which I understand to be simply tired.  "It's the results of his medical exams.  There are concerns that his body will not be able to handle the effects of wet-hi."

"What do you mean, concerns?"  Kaia's eyes narrow in challenge.  "Is this because of his age?  He's only ninety-two!  There are plenty of older colonists-"

Old.  Old.  I do not think of myself as 'old'.  This is not to say that I'm under any sort of illusion that I am 'young'- all the rejuves my well-intentioned daughters have 'gifted' me with cannot keep me from feeling the weight of my years in my heart, in my soul- but I am not 'old'.  Cannot be old.  The trees I recall from my youth were old.  Mountains are old.  Stars are certainly old.  Humans can never be truly old.

But they can be young, as this solemn, white-frocked clerk is young.  He must be at least thirty years junior to Kaia, which is probably part of why she's so frightened.  Yes, frightened.  My daughter has always transmuted fear to rage, ever since her mother died.

"It's not about his age, Ms. Sejoh, although just to clarify," his lips purse in disapproval, "what you see on the clips is not particularly indicative of the reality of the situation.  Certainly there are a handful of celebrities who can afford the extra procedures- procedures that never get mentioned in the clips, mind you- the extra procedures required to help an older body deal with wet-hi, but they are the exception, not the rule."

"If this is about money-"

"It's not about money, either."

"Then what is it about?"

The clerk holds up perfectly manicured hands, as if to physically halt Kaia's fury.  I feel I should warn him it will only do the opposite.  "Your father has genetic markers which indicate that he is part of a small percentage of the population for whom wet-hi, for whatever reason, does not work."

"What?  Why have I never heard about this?" Her voice is suspicious, as though she believes the clerk has made up this condition just to thwart her.  I try not to smile.

"The layman's term is 'Falfurrias Condition'," he says patiently, "and, as I said, it affects only a small- a very small- percentage of the population."

"How small?"

He sighs again.  "Literally one in a million, if that many."

"Hah!"  The laugh escapes before I can stop it; they both turn to look at me, but I pretend to be coughing.  'One in a million'!  How Sehme would laugh to hear her words applied to me in this new, strange context.  Of course, she always used to follow it with the cheeky reminder that, if it didn't work out with me, she'd just go find one of the other 1.5 million she might have a shot with.

I consider this, sobering.  One and a half million people who cannot get Off: cannot escape our dying planet.  Doesn't seem like such a small number when you put it like that.  I slide my eyes over to my daughter and see her making similar calculations.  Her full lips have compressed into a brittle line.

"This is unacceptable."

"This is reality, Ms. Sejoh." The man's voice starts hard, then gentles as he adds, "I'm sorry it had to happen to you and your family."

Reality happens to everyone, I think.  What is there to be sorry about?

"I'm getting a second opinion," she snaps, shoving to her feet.  I take a little more time about it.  I've never been one to rush.

"Please do.  I hope they prove us wrong," says the clerk, and I almost think he means it.  Almost, but not quite.

We leave the office too slowly to make a truly dramatic exit, but Kaia's glares more than make up for that, I think.  As we retrace our steps to the parking pad she mutters under her breath.  At first I think she is still cursing the clerk, but then I realize she is calling my youngest daughter, Dalili.

Lili got Off ages ago, when she was still a teenager.  In those days it was only the young and adventurous who took such gambles- this was before people realized that the greater gamble was how much longer our world could survive.  She'd paid for it by going as a mentary, creating clips of her experiences so the world could watch in fascination.  As such she had been popping in and out of wet-hi every three years for the past four decades, which meant she would be a lot older than her compatriots when they finally landed, but also a lot wealthier.  She was currently awake, and scheduled to be that way for at least two more months.

I watch her clips, of course- the nets turn three months of constant recordings into two seasons of shows, not to mention tie-in material- but I have never accustomed myself to how young she stays.  Neither, although she would never admit it, has Kaia.

Lili has always reminded me of Sehme, although the two only had eighteen months together- and nine of those months Lili was cradled beneath Sehme's heart.  But she has the same bright spark that drew me to her mother, the same bright spark that draws everyone.  She loves freedom and adventure and love in general.  It seems appropriate that she should remain young, not just cosyoung but truly young, while the rest of us age.  It's not that different from my amber-trapped memories of Sehme.

Kaia is... I wonder, sometimes, if she might have been more like me in temperament, if not for her mother's early death.  But then I remember how the shape of her scowl is exactly that of my own mother's, and I think perhaps we must be who we must be, regardless of the circumstances.  Kaia is very serious, and very controlled: strong and competent, and not one to suffer nonsense.  When Kaia decides a thing will get done, it Gets Done.

She is not used to being successfully thwarted.  The term "genetic marker" might have brought most people to a screeching halt, faced with a variable that was set before I was even born- but not my eldest.

"I'm not going to just leave him!" Kaia exclaims, and my wandering mind is brought back to the present.

It is highly doubtful that Lili suggested- or even implied- that Kaia 'just leave me'.  This makes no difference to what Kaia has heard, however, and she begins to rail against her 'irresponsible, feckless child' of a sister.  Poor Lili.  It is hard to bear the weight of others' regrets.

We cannot exit the building until we have suited up, and of course we cannot suit up so long as Kaia is still so enthusiastically ranting.  I sidle over to one of the windows and stare up and out at the sky.  The skins on the window make it a dull orange-brown, of course- but even if the skins weren't there, it wouldn't be the clean blue I remember from childhood.  Kaia and Lili never knew skies like that.  The thought makes me wistful.  But then I remember that the new worlds have blue skies, and I am happy.

Eventually Kaia comes and finds me, scolds me for not already suiting up, and bustles me out to where our pod is waiting.  I think we are going home, but as the moments pass I realize Kaia has keyed in entirely unfamiliar coordinates.

The pod moves in and out of the flow as efficiently as if Kaia herself had been guiding its movements.  She is on the nect again, but since she is suited up I cannot decipher who she is speaking to.  I turn my attention instead to the gracefully curving lines of our pod: it's top of the line, the interior smelling of warm leather, orange-oiled wood, and the vanilla of Kaia's perfume.  I'm glad we bought it- it's much more comfortable than our previous pod- but there are days when I sorely miss the wild, manual-driving days of my youth, nothing but two tons of metal and sheer nerve between you and destruction.

I am drawn abruptly from my memories when we arrive at a hospital- not my hospital, that I am so familiar with, but a hospital.  I assume Kaia has decided there's no time like the present for second opinions.

"Wait here, father," she says, climbing out the door onto the cold blue-gray of the pad.  Her plum skirt hikes up, but she jerks it viciously back into place.  "I'm going to see what I can arrange."  Kaia always does her best 'arranging' face-to-face.  Her presence can be... intense.

I do wait.  In my defense, I do wait an entire three minutes.  And then I key in some coordinates of my own.

When I was a boy and wanted to escape, I would go to a green place and hide, free from my father's walls, my mother's expectations, free to breathe in air that had been to places I would never see.

These days, of course, I do not have such a luxury.  No one does.  But the city's biodens are close enough for my purposes.  I program the pod to fly home, knowing it will give me a little longer on my own, and I enter the dome.

Being rich was never a goal for either Sehme or myself- it was one of those things that just sort of happened while we were busy working hard.  Most of the time I don't think about it, but times like this, times when I can enjoy the privileges of a biome Pillar Level membership, I am grateful.  Kaia calls it 'an unnecessary expense', but I, as is my right as patriarch, insist it is quite necessary.

Anyway it's my money.

I make my way, slowly, from one bioden to the next.  I could hop on a slidewalk, of course, but I find more satisfaction using my own legs, at my own pace.  I am so rarely allowed to do things for myself these days.  And what's the point of all these rejuves if I'm not going to keep using the limbs they claim to be preserving?

The biodens remind me of the women I have loved.  Do love.  Sehme, of course, because she loved all growing things.  Kaia, because she, too, will always find a way to adapt and survive, as so many of these little plants have.  And Lili, because, like my youngest daughter, this small part of the world remains young and fresh while the rest of us age... and die.

The world is dying.  It is sick, so sick- just as Sehme was.  Sick, and dying- but beautiful nonetheless.

I pass through woodland and scrub, taiga and tundra.  I come at last to desert, and it is here that I wander off the path and into the shimmering dunes.

There are certain privileges to being old and very wealthy.  If they catch me, they will shoo me out in the kindest way possible.  But they rarely catch me, because who in their right mind goes wandering around a desert biome?

I do.  And I do it for a specific purpose.

Once the pathways are out of sight, I settle down into the trough of a dune and run my fingers through the hot, silken sand, digging down to the cooler layers beneath.  The desert has many secrets, and it just so happens that we share this one.

"Hello, Sehme," I say.  She is in these sands, her ashes mixed to the point of disappearing, but she is here nonetheless.  The curator would be horrified if he knew what I'd done- as would Kaia- but I like to think that Lili would understand.  Sehme needed to be part of the world, not bottled up and kept on a shelf.

I must have dozed, because the next thing I know, one of the young caretakers is gently shaking my shoulder, and the light has taken on a certain slant that tells you it's later in the day.

"Mr. Sejoh," he says shyly, "Your daughter is here, and I think you do not want to be officially discovered off the paths."

Breaking

This is a narrative about an unexpected, natural miscarriage in the second trimester.

It's graphic.

Only you can decide if you're comfortable reading it.  If you'd rather have just the cold facts, go here.  If you don't want to know anything about it at all, that's okay, too.

***

The contractions start about half an hour before midnight.

I'm not pleased, obviously.  There shouldn't be any contractions at all, and I'm not in the mood for another sleepless night.  But it's not like there's anything I can do about it.

Well, there are a few things.  I take some acetaminophen, and I let myself express my displeasure (and pain) verbally, something I didn't do the other night while Nathan was sleeping.  Deep breaths, grunting out "Okay, okay, okay, okay," as the pain rises up to a peak, then slowly subsides.  Waves, waves... so much of a woman's life is tied to the ocean...

After about an hour of this I decide to get into the shower.  The pain isn't so bad as it was the other night- at their peak these contractions are hitting a 6 rather than an 8- but it's plenty bad enough that I know I have no chance of sleeping through them.  It's shower time.  Hot water helped last time, I'm sure it will help this time.  Another one hits me as I'm getting under the water, and I make unhappy noises with no real words involved- Nathan hears me from downstairs, and comes rushing in.

I don't want him to see me like this, to see me in pain and be unable to do anything, but at the same time it's a relief not to keep silent like I was before, to be able to yell "Fuck!" and hit the wall with my hand whenever I feel the need.  Which I do often.  The contractions are getting worse, and coming more frequently.  Whatever helps me through one is not guaranteed to help me through the next- in fact it's pretty much guaranteed not to.

I ask Nathan to look up how to breathe through contractions- he finds me a few tips, but they're written in such smug, calm voices that I cannot help but feel highly annoyed by them, and certain that the people who wrote those instructions have never actually experienced a contraction.

There's no thinking during contractions, not really.  There's no talking, beyond perhaps the word, "Fuck," or "Ow".  Plenty of inarticulate growls and grunts.  But in between contractions I can think, and what I keep thinking, as if on a loop, is,

"This is fucking bullshit.  Unfair, god damn bullshit."

At one point I say to Nathan, "Know what?  One baby is good.  One perfect baby.  No need to go through this again."

For real.  This is not what pregnancy is supposed to be like.

Another contractions hits, and I twist and howl and wish desperately to escape my body.  Maybe this would be easier, if I knew I would get a live baby at the end of it.  But I don't know that.  The best I can hope for is for it to just stop, to fade away like it did the other night.  But it doesn't stop.

I've told Nathan over and over that I don't want to go to the hospital- we went for the first miscarriage, and it was sheer misery.  They can't do anything to stop a miscarriage, all they can do is charge you a couple thousand bucks to ignore you for six hours.

"If I miscarry again," I've said, "I want to do it in the comfort and dignity of my own home."

But now Nathan is looking at me and he saying, "Baby I'm worried about you.  I'm afraid if we don't go then something will go wrong with you,"

"Pain can't... hurt me," I say, fully aware of the irony.  "Pain won't kill me.  The only danger I'm in is of bleeding out, and we'll keep an eye on it and I promise I'll let you take me to the hospital if it comes to that."

Shortly thereafter a contraction hits that blows right through my anger, and instead makes me whimper like an injured animal, and cry.  I am literally crying, tears leaking from my eyes, and that's when I know shit is real, because I have no choice about it.  Normally I can choose whether or not to "let" myself cry, but this?  This is happening because it is the only possible response to the pain that I'm in.  Even when the contraction passes I'm still curled in a ball in the tub, crying, bewildered, broken.

This is wrong.

Normally I don't like to be touched when I'm in pain, but for this I've let Nathan put his hand on me.  Suddenly, I have to go to the bathroom.

"Let me  up," I say, and I can hear the desperation in my voice.  He does, and I scramble to the toilet.  A very small, distant part of my brain knows what this is.

The desire to push feels exactly like the desire to poop,

More than one woman has told me that, but it's one thing to know something intellectually, and another thing to actually believe it.


The pain comes to a crescendo and thank the gods Nathan is still holding me because I'm not just crying, it's like the sobs are being ripped from my body in great gasping sorrowful shrieks because I do push, and I feel my body passing something, and I know what that something is.  And I'm afraid of it, afraid afraid afraid...

The pain subsides almost immediately.

"It's okay," I say to Nathan, strangely calm through my tears.  "It's over now.  It's over."

And then he understands, and we cry together, his rage boiling up and over and serving to make me calmer and calmer.  Now I have to pass the placenta.  I have to collect the samples.  I have to be very cold, and logical about this.  I don't have time to break down.  I can do that later.

I send Nathan away so I can collect the fetus.  At first I don't want to.  I'd give anything not to look and see the premature horror I've birthed.  But more than that, I don't want Nathan to have to see.  So I send him away, because I know that I have seen worse things in my life, and I will probably see things worse still in the future.

I send up a silent prayer that I never have to see anything worse.

But then I look and... it's not terrible.  It's not terrible at all.  There she is, perfectly formed, so perfect perfect perfect in her unbroken sack.  Fourteen weeks, three days.  I saw her heartbeat less than 48 hours ago.  I scoop her up, and I don't feel disgust, or horror- just sorrow.  And relief.  She is not a monster.  She just... is.

Isis, Ice Baby

Turns out Isis delights in the snap of puddles every bit as much as I do.

Firebird

Sometimes I just start stitching because I want to, and I don't really know where it's going to take me.  The last time that happened (in February, actually), it went a little like this:

"Hmm, I want to stitch, but I'm done Valentine's Day is over.  What else could I stitch now?  It might be fun to do one of my angels with the illuminated wings... hmm, illuminated wings... I'll bet it would be nice to stitch a firebird!"

And so I drew a little firebird on a piece of card stock, and started to stitch:

Burn.

Simple simple line-work, in the beginning, lots of long graceful lines to follow.  For the colors I decided that I wanted to work in shades of flame (obviously), but that I would treat the bird's body as the hottest part of the flame, and therefore white (twined with pale yellow) and then get darker the further out I went.

A lovely effect.

Such a nice gradient!  I got the subtle color changes by using three threads and slowly substituting one shade after another.  You can see it most obviously in the third feather from the left- I used a pale orange, a salmon, and a scarlet for that one.  Anyway once the main line work was done, I needed to go back in to the feathers and do the details...

Which I did.

That shot also shows you where I started adding extra flourishes, and how I draw the lines in pencil and then punch holes in the card stock using the needle.  But still more flourishes were needed!

Traces of gray, for smoke.

So I added those flourishes, and filled in the world "burn" while I was at it, but I knew that still more flourishes were needed!

More!  We need more!

In the end it turned out like this:

An Official Portrait, by Nathan.

And the back looked like this:

Awesomely ordered chaos.

And if you would like get a better sense of the scale of this thing:

Too much red!  Blowing out my phone's sensors!

And here are two more Nathan photos for more detail work:

Can you see the barest touch of blue I used in her eye?

Ha hah, who forgot to erase pencil lines before letting Nathan take photos?  THISGIRL.

So that's what I occasionally do with my time- freehand something onto a piece of card stock, and then stitch the hell out of it.  Wheee!  All in all it took me... three days, I think?  But they were highly satisfying days.

Mistress of the Munchkins

This is the sort of thing that happens when one spends too much time thinking about Oz...

Wicked?  Or the victim of a Postmortem Defamation Campaign?

Truth be told, I didn't intend to put down as much color as I did.  Not tonight, anyway... but it's also not as detailed as I'd like it to be.  But I seriously have got to get ready for bed, no  matter how inspiring my music is...

Finding Room

The problem with pregnant women is that they will not mind you. They are overflowing with the miracle and authority of creation, and convinced they know how things ought to be ordered in the world. We husbands can do little to dissuade them, and so when I came into the kitchen and found my wife sweeping yet again, I did not have much hope for meeting with good sense.

“Keturah,” I said, striving to keep my voice full of the patience our Lord commands us to have for our wives, “You should be in bed!”

“Manasseh,” she said in her sweetest voice, which I have learned means she is determined to have her own way, “I am a pregnant woman, not an invalid. And in case you had not noticed, the inn is overflowing and we can ill afford to let work start to pile up.”

“But all the guests are in bed,” I took the broom from her hands, “And I can do this. You can supervise if you are feeling restless. Sit there, put your feet up- please, please indulge your poor, beleaguered husband his neuroses.” Keturah sighed and worked her knuckles into her lower back: she still had a month left before the child- our first- was due, but I could not fathom her growing any larger. Finally she grabbed my beard and pulled my face down so she could kiss my cheek.

“Alright I will sit. But only because I do not like to see you so fretful.”

“Thank you, indulgent ruby of the midnight hour.” She swatted playfully at my arm, and I did not dodge the blow- I had also come to learn that she did not like to be reminded of how she was not as nimble as she had been.

“I wish we could have a census every year,” she said in a satisfied voice as she eased herself into the chair I’d gestured at. “Just think of the lovely new cloaks we will have this winter.”

“I could wish we had them only in years my wife was not pregnant,” I grumbled, and it was true. As good as the influx of travelers had been for filling our coffers, it had not done much for my stress levels. I wanted Keturah to be able to stay in bed (not that she would) and for me to be able to see to her every whim, rather than both of us having to look after a great herd of people who were thoroughly disgruntled about being commanded to return to their place of birth for counting. I did not see the sense in it, myself- why not count people where they were? But who is a simple innkeeper to argue with an emperor’s decree? I was just glad we had never left Bethlehem. I could not imagine having to travel anywhere with my wife in her current condition.

Once I had swept the kitchen out to her satisfaction Keturah beckoned me over and placed my hands on her belly. I felt our child press up against my palm.

“He’s excited tonight,” I remarked, and knelt down to place my forehead against the bulge. My wife’s fingers begin to work through my hair, gently unsnarling my tangles back into curls.

“Yes, she is,” she said. “she must sense something momentous about to occur.”

“More likely he’s just not used to so many new voices,” I said, and then smiled as she tugged hard on a lock.

“You have no imagination,” she scolded, and tugged on another one. “Maybe our daughter will be a great prophetess, and then won’t you feel sorry for doubting her in the womb!”

“Mercy, gentle wife!” I laughed. “No more of your torture. If you say our child is a girl, and a soothsayer at that, so it must be! You know we poor men can never hope to understand the great mysteries of life as our wise women do.”

“That’s right,” she said, but gave me another, albeit more gentle, tug. “And as a matter of fact-“

But she was interrupted by a knock at the door. I groaned.

“Not another one!” I’d already turned away seven that evening, and did not relish the idea of telling yet another poor soul that he had to keep going at such a late hour. Some men got so angry it was as though they believed I had deliberately sold all my rooms before they could get there. I sighed, got to my feet, and held out my hand to Keturah, to help her rise. “Take our little prophetess to bed, my wise wife, and I shall join you shortly.” She smiled and tilted her face up for another kiss.

“Be quick, husband.”

I opened the door to find a man maybe ten years older than myself standing there, holding a donkey’s lead.

“Sorry friend,” I started, my voice as sympathetic as I could make it. “But we’ve-” and then I noticed who was sitting on the donkey. A woman- barely more than a girl, really- more belly than anything else. She made Keturah look downright reasonably sized.

“…no more… room…” I trailed off. The man looked haggard, the woman swayed as though she might fall off the donkey at any moment.

“Are you sure, friend?” he asked, in the dull voice of someone who has already repeated his request far too many times. I knew that we were not the only inn overflowing with custom. These two had probably been turned away multiple times tonight. “I can pay well.”

“It’s not about the money,” I said, wondering if I ought to move closer, to catch the woman if she fell. “It’s this census- we’ve sold every room, every bed, every bench, even space on the hallway floors! I’d give you my own bed for the sake of your wife, were not my own pregnant wife already in it.”

The other man closed his eyes and turned to go, murmuring a thanks- and I thought of Keturah, and how I would feel if it were me unable to find a place for her.

“Wait!” I said. “It’s true I have no room left in the inn… but… I am almost ashamed to offer this…”

“Please, we are not so proud as to be offended by any kindness you might offer,” said the woman in a startlingly sweet voice.

“I have room in my stable,” I blurted. “It’s warm and clean, and the hay might make a soft place to lay down on, if you don’t mind sharing space with animals. I could bring you blankets…”

“We’ll take it, and pay you handsomely for the privilege!” the man’s voice held such relief I feared he might cry.

“No need for that,” I mumbled, thinking again of my wife sleeping in our bed, of the movement of our child beneath my palms. “I offer it on behalf of our unborn children. I pray they grow up in a world where kindness is not so rare we feel we must pay extra for it.”

“Thank you,” said the woman, pressing her hands to her belly. “I pray that, as well.”

Firewalker

She doesn't know why she's here. There's nothing for her here- there's nothing for her anywhere, anymore, but there is most especially nothing for her here in this small southern town she swore she'd never return to. Her momma's dead, her daddy's dead, and there's not a soul in this town who, if they recognized her, would be glad to see her. Nothing here but memories, and most of them as unwelcome to her as she is to them.

But there was nowhere else to go, and she is so tired of going to new places only to discover she doesn't fit in there, either. Might as well be here, where she is already familiar with all the ways in which she doesn't belong. It's almost a comfort.

It's August, and the mid-day air is shimmering around her as she faces down the white-washed walls of her parents' church. How long has it been since she's been in this church? Or any church, for that matter? How long has it been since she's talked to God? She thinks she can just barely remember what it was like to sit in His house and hear His voice... but then, she also remembers the anticipation of Santa Claus.

She sighs and turns, sits on the shaded steps and stares out at the main street. It's so hot out that no one is about- they're all curled up in their air-conditioned homes, or at the very least sitting on covered porches with tall glasses of sweet, sweet tea. She considers the abandoned road in front of her, listens to the dull clinking of wind-chimes from across the street.

She thinks back to what it was like to have faith, what it was like to believe in something, to know something. She wouldn't mind being that kind of person again. She kicks off her sandals and spreads her toes, examining her neatly manicured nails. Nothing fancy- just clear polish- but there is something soft about them. How can these pale, elegant feet have sprung from the feet of her youth? Those brown little feet that carried her, barefoot, through streams and forests and down endless miles of grass and clay and pavement.

She looks out at the street again, watches the heat dance above its near-molten surface. It reminds her of a bed of coals, and she remembers a program she watched once, about some island culture where the inhabitants walked on fire. It was healing for them- a test of faith and a proof courage. An initiation.

She stands, letting the sandals drop from her fingers. Maybe this is why she's come back- maybe God is whispering to her again- so soft she can't really hear Him, but just loud enough for her to feel Him.

She takes a step onto the burning asphalt- and then another. The heat is the purest thing she's felt in a long time, the pain a kind of blessed ecstasy to her benumbed soul.

Yes, she thinks, I am ready to come home.

Gruff

Once upon a time there was a tiny baby billy goat named Trevor who lived in a valley meadow with his mother, his father, and the rest of their herd. Trevor was much smaller than the other kids, and did not seem to grow even half so quickly. His parents were much concerned that he would sicken and die in the coming winter, so they took him to the wisest old nanny goat in the herd for a consultation.

“He’s been cursed,” she said in her no-nonsense tone. “He’s been cursed, and the only cure is for him to eat frostspun leaf. And he must go alone to find it, or it won’t do him any good.” Now Trevor’s parents were distraught to hear this, for frostspun grew only at the highest altitudes- and the only way to get to the highest altitudes was by crossing through troll territory.

It may be when I say “troll” you think of a small plastic doll with shiny naked buttocks and entirely too much rainbow hair sprouting from its inanely-smiling head. You must put this thought from your mind, because that is not what I mean when I say troll. Not in this instance. When I say troll, what I mean is something as big as a truck, with impenetrable skin the color of granite, and a mouthful of teeth both sharp for tearing and flat for crushing. I mean something with a wretched temperament, an insatiable appetite, and a special appreciation for goat meat. In fact, trolls were the reason that Trevor’s herd lived in the valley, rather than up on the slopes like good mountain goats should. They had lived there in the past, but once the trolls moved in to the neighborhood, the goats found it behooved them to just stick to the lowlands. It wasn’t the best grazing land, but at least they didn’t have to live in constant fear of being devoured.

So now Trevor’s parents were in a quandary. If they sent Trevor alone to get his cure, the trolls would probably eat him. But if they did not send him, he would probably die when winter came, anyway. Can you imagine what a horrible thing this was for them to decide? Which death would be better- becoming a quick snack, or a lingering illness? They did not know, and they stayed up late into the night, arguing about it. But Trevor, who figured it wasn’t their decision to make anyway, decided he’d just make it for himself and crept off into the night.

Trevor knew that his parents would come looking for him, and moreover he figured they’d figure he’d take the easiest, least-dangerous (although still not safe) path to the mountaintop. As such, he decided he’d go the more dangerous route- the route that would take him directly over a bridge that was a known troll-shelter. They’ll never think to look for me that way, he told himself, and anyway I’m so tiny and light the troll probably won’t even notice my crossing.

So that is the way Trevor went, with frequent breaks to catch his breath. He reached the bridge just after the sun rose, and stood staring at it a long time. He didn’t see any movement, and he didn’t hear any movement, and he didn’t smell- well, okay he did smell troll, but he’d been smelling troll for the past few miles, and there was nothing he could do about it. So Trevor took a deep breath, thought weightless thoughts, and began to cross the bridge.

Tippity-tippity-tip, went his tiny hooves on the stone. Trevor thought they sounded like little pebbles shifting. Tippity-tippity-tip. Perfectly ordinary noises! But then-

“Who’s that tippity-tipping over my bridge? I’m going to eat him up!” The voice of the troll was like the roar of an avalanche, and we cannot blame Trevor if his tiny legs began to shake in fear. In fact he was so frightened he couldn’t speak a word, so he just kept moving across the bridge, tippity-tippity-tip.

“Nothing to say for yourself?” yelled the troll. “No? Pesky wind, always knocking pebbles onto my bridge…” its yell deteriorated into a mutter, and Trevor felt certain the troll was settling itself back down to sleep. The moment his hooves hit the soft grass on the other side, Trevor took off at a much faster run than he’d ever accomplished before. Adrenaline will do that for a person, even if that person is a sickly little kid.

The rest of his journey was without incident, and he did eventually find a little patch of frostspun. As soon as Trevor began to nibble on the leaves he felt stronger, and by the time he finished the plant he suddenly knew what it was to feel normal. He spent the next few hours frolicking on the mountain-side, as a young goat is meant to, before settling down for a long, long sleep. It had been a long day, and even with his new energy he was exhausted.

The next morning he set back off down the mountain, until once more he was facing the bridge. He sucked in a deep breath and began to cross it with the same light footsteps as before.

Tippity-tippity-tap. Tippity-tippity-tap.

“Alright now, that does it! I know it’s not pebbles this time!” and with that the troll surged up from beneath its bridge to glare at whatever was disturbing its peace. It stopped short when it saw Trevor.

“Goat?” it said in confusion. “When did goats get so small? Oh well, it hardly matters- I’m going to eat you up regardless!”

“Oh!” squeaked Trevor, “You shouldn’t do that!”

“Whyever not? It’s been a long time since I’ve had goat. They don’t seem to come around much, anymore.”

“Oh, um, well, you see-“ Trevor’s mind was working overtime, “If you eat me, there won’t be any more, ever!”

“What? That’s ridiculous. How dumb do you think I am?”

“No, no, it’s true! See, my people miss the mountain- they think they’re growing too fat and delicious in the meadow, and they want to come back to their ancestral home, but they’re afraid the trolls are still around. So they sent me, the littlest kid, to go check. They said it won’t be much of a loss if I don’t come back, and if I don’t then they’ll know that the trolls are still around and there’s no point in returning to the mountain.”

“Hmm,” said the troll, sitting back on its haunches. “That does make sense. You’re so puny- who would miss you?” (Trolls are not known for their parenting instincts.) “Hah! I’ve had an excellent idea! Goat-baby, I will not eat you on one condition!”

“Anything, mister troll!”

“I will let you live, but you can’t tell anyone you saw me. Can you promise that?”

“Oh yes sir, I surely can!”

“Okay then. Get going. You wouldn’t even have been a full mouthful, anyway.” So saying the troll lumbered back down beneath its bridge, oblivious to the wake of drool it was leaving.

Trevor dearly wanted to faint with relief, but he made himself carry on back toward home.

***

It may surprise you to discover that Trevor kept his promise- he did not tell anyone about his interaction with the troll, or really much of anything about his journey. They were so relieved to have him back that they did not press, and his parents were utterly delighted when they realized he was starting to grow again. Soon he looked like any other healthy young adult goat, and no one feared for his untimely demise.

But then one day he grew listless again, so his parents took him back to the wise old nanny goat.

“The curse was not broken,” she told them, “only delayed a little. He must go again to eat the frostspun leaf. His destiny depends upon it.”

Trevor’s parents did not bother arguing with one another this time, for they knew that Trevor would make up his own mind. Sure enough, Trevor left at dawn, taking the same path as before. This time he reached the stone bridge when the sun was at its highest.

I’m still not that big, he thought. Perhaps the troll won’t notice my footfalls. And he began to cross.

Trippity-trippity-trap went his hooves. Trevor thought they sounded a bit like rocks rolling around. Trippity-trippity-trap.

“Who’s that trippity-trapping over my bridge? I’m going to eat him up!” But Trevor, who had realized the troll had a lazy streak, said nothing and continued on. Trippity-trippity-trap.

“I know you’re up there! You’d better… you’d better… aw, darn rockslide,” muttered the troll.

Soon Trevor’s hooves were again on soft grass, and he moved swiftly up the mountainside. This time he had to climb further to find any frostspun, but once again it immediately restored him. He ate twice as much as he had before, and this time when he finished he did not frisk about, but instead assessed his surroundings with seriousness.

It was a good place for goats. He could see why his people had lived there, and it was a shame they were exiled by the stupid, greedy trolls. With this thought in mind Trevor settled down to sleep, and had strange and wonderful dreams he couldn’t quite remember.

The next day he came once again to the stone bridge, and began to make his way across.

Trippity-trippity-trap.

“Ah-hah!” yelled the troll as it emerged from beneath its bridge. “Another tasty goat! I’m going to eat you up!” Then it paused and added, “You’re not as big as I’d been lead to believe. That little one said you were all fat and delicious now.”

Trevor thought fast.

“Oh, the other goats are all much fatter than me. I’m a runt where I come from- only the size of our mountain-dwelling ancestors. When the littlest kid came back and said there were no trolls between us and the mountainside anymore, our elders figured that maybe he was just too small to interest a troll. So they sent me, since I’m more what trolls are used to, and anyway if I don’t come back who’s going to miss a runt?”

“Runt, huh?” The troll eyed him speculatively. “Hmmm. So you’re saying that if you don’t come back, the other goats will know it’s not safe to come around?”

“Yep.”

“And they’re all fatter than you?”

“Much fatter.”

“Hmmm.” The troll and the goat stared at one another for a while, until the troll finally sighed.

“Alright, goat, I’m going to let you go. But only on the condition you don’t tell anyone about me.”

“Fair enough, sir.”

“In fact, I want you to tell those other goats how beautiful the mountainside is, and that they’d all better hurry up and move out there before the weather turns.” The troll nodded at his own cleverness. “Yes, tell them that. Emphasize the hurry part.”

“Absolutely, sir.”

And so Trevor returned to his people’s valley, and all was well. In fact it was better than well, for over the winter Trevor hit a growth spurt, until he became the largest, heaviest, strongest goat the herd had ever heard of, let alone seen. His muscles were hard and his hair was glossy, and two deadly-sharp horns curled down from his brow. Truly he was the most magnificent specimen of goat known to the world. And every night, he dreamed of the joy and peace to be found on the mountainside.

One day Trevor woke from his dream and went to go see the wise old nanny-goat. She smiled at his approach.

“Ah, little troll-tricker. How may I help you?”

“How did you know about that?”

“Kid, if you don’t think I know things I shouldn’t then why are you coming to me with such a serious look on your face?”

“I need advice about my destiny.”

“No you don’t,” she snapped, and butted him in the flank with her head. “You just need to go live it.”

***

And so Trevor found himself standing at the edge of the stone bridge yet again. The sun was low in the sky, and he knew it would be evening soon. Evening, followed by night, when trolls were at their most alert and dangerous. Trevor had no illusions about what his hooves would sound like this time, but he was no longer afraid.

Trampity-trampity-TROMP!

“Who’s that trampity-tromping over my bridge? I’m going to eat them up!”

“Somehow I doubt that, troll!”

There was silence from under the bridge, and then a furious squawk.

“What did you say?!” and the troll appeared.

Now, a troll at its ease is bad enough (Remember the size? The teeth?) but a troll in a rage is something else entirely. Any sensible creature would have turned and fled- but Trevor was not necessarily sensible, and he had come on a specific mission.

“Well well well,” said the troll when he saw Trevor. “Finally a goat of a decent size. Took you long enough. But where are your brethren? I’d hoped to make a right feast of you all.”

“Troll, you’re not going to be able to handle the one you’ve got!” and Trevor sprang at him with his curling horns.

In later re-tellings of the story Trevor’s descendents would confuse a few details. Perhaps the most important thing that was forgotten was that the troll did not go down easily: Trevor had to fight for his life. And in that fight the troll did manage to do some damage. In fact, at one point he managed to get a hand around Trevor’s throat, crushing it beyond repair. But Trevor slashed at him with his heavy hooves, and the troll was forced to let go. And while the troll was distracted by that pain, Trevor slashed again, this time with his horns, and blinded the troll. From that point forward the fight was more balanced, and in the end Trevor was triumphant. As he stood trembling over the troll’s crushed head, he heard a branch snap. He looked up and to his horror saw that he had an audience- at least twenty other trolls had been drawn from their lairs by the sound of the struggle.

“Come on then,” Trevor yelled- or tried to yell. His poor throat had been so mangled that his voice came out a hoarse rasp. He compensated by glaring as fiercely as he could; he knew he was about to die, but he did not intend to go out easily.

But the trolls did not move. They were whispering amongst themselves, and every once in a while Trevor thought he caught a phrase or two.

“…he’s alone… must be another runt…”

“…ven if he isn’t a runt… whole herd of goats even that size…”

“…just one… whole herd could do…”

“…whole herd…”

“…herd!”

Finally an even larger than average troll stepped forward.

“Goat, we have no quarrel with you or your people. We’ve decided to move on. Better eatings elsewhere, we’re sure. Just, uh… just move back on up the mountain and stay there. Definitely, definitely stay there. You and all your people. In one place. Where we don’t have to worry about accidently running into any more of your runts.”

And the trolls left.

Trevor, exhausted, hurt, and in a mild form of shock, began to limp his way up the mountainside to where the frostspun grew. He stayed there many days, recovering, until he felt well enough to make his way back to the valley.

When he reached the stone bridge he didn’t even pause.

Trampity-trampity-TROMP went his hooves over the bones of his fallen enemy. Not a single trollish soul was left to complain of the noise.

***

When Trevor found his parents they were being visited by the wise old nanny goat (who had a knack for being present at strange events). His parents were shocked and overjoyed to see him- he’d been gone for so long they’d all but given up hope. The elder, on the other hand, just looked smug.

“Mother, father, wise nanny” Trevor said in his now-roughened tones, “I’ve come to lead you and the herd back home.” And he told them all of his adventures. Before long others in the herd noticed his presence, and they ran up to greet him, demanding to know all that had happened. But the old nanny goat, seeing how much it pained Trevor to speak, cut them off.

“Come now, his voice is too grim and gruff for such a happy tale! We shall tell it for him.”

And they did.

Rebel Red

There once was a girl who loved her older brother very much. When he went off to fight the war of Northern Aggression, to keep her and her family safe from the tyranny of a government too remote to understand them or their lives, she was so proud she thought she’d bust. When he sent her an authentic artillery kepi, just like the one he wore while fighting the damn Yankees, she treasured it more than her little china doll. She wore it every day, in spite of her mother’s protestations, and was secretly delighted when she overheard herself being referred to as “that little red-cap girl”.

The war did not end as quickly as everyone had thought it would. Years passed, and during those years Little Red-Cap did a lot of growing up. When word came down that her brave older brother was missing and presumed dead, she did not join her family in mourning. No, indeed she did not. Instead she cut off her hair, packed up some vittles, and set off to find the Confederate Army wearing her regulation kepi. She knew that the other soldiers were too busy fighting the war to look for one who was lost, so she figured she’d just have to track him down herself.

As it turns out, she didn’t have much of a chance to look for him at first, being too busy learning to fight and then actually fighting alongside her fellow artillerymen. But eventually all her looking and listening paid off, and she heard tell of a man matching her brother’s descriptions being held in an enemy camp not sixty miles off. So off she went through the woods to find him.

She had not been traveling more than two days when she came across a young man who, unbeknownst to her, was actually a deserter. He began to chat with her, and when he discovered that she was on a rescue mission he thought to himself, Well now I don’t think this boy is a boy at all. But he did not dare do anything while she carried her rifle. So he acted amazed and said he knew about a soldier looking like the one she’d described, who had escaped from the Union and was making his way back to his comrades. The deserter said he’d encountered him not long ago, holed up in a little abandoned shack and regaining his strength. Then he gave Little Red-Cap a set of convoluted directions, and said he must be on his way, himself.

Now of course the deserted had never met anyone at all like Little Red-Cap’s brother, but he got himself as quick as he could to the shack he’d told her about, smeared his face with some ash, and hid all of himself but his eyes beneath some old rags. Soon enough Little Red Cap came along, calling out for her brother.

“I’m here,” said the deserter, making his voice weak. Little Red Cap put down her gun and rushed to his side.

“Oh brother, I knew you weren’t dead!”

“Is it an angel?” said the deserter. “Have you come to take me to heaven? Come closer, angel- I’m ready for you.”

Now, Little Red Cap did not entirely know what to make of this. Her brother had never been particularly religious (much to their mother’s despair) but she reckoned that war changed a man. Hell, it had changed her, hadn’t it? So she moved a little closer to him and said,

“I’m not an angel, brother. I’m your sister, come to take you home.” She laid a hand on his arm and said, “My, brother, the war has made your arms so big.”

“The better to hold you again, sweet sister,” said the deserter, and slipped them around her.

“And my, brother, the war seems to have sweetened your voice some.”

“The better to tell you how much I love you,” and he smiled at her. Little Red-Cap felt her blood turn to ice.

“And… and brother, it seems the war has replaced the tooth I knocked out when we were little.”

“The better- what?”

At which point Little Red-Cap jerked her knee into a most sensitive area of the deserter’s anatomy.

He howled in pain and anger, but did not release her, for he knew the moment he did she would make straight for the rifle. The two wrestled, but the unfortunate truth is that a man is generally stronger than a woman, even if she has spent the past few months marching as one. Just when it seemed as though things might go the absolute worst for Little Red-Cap, a rough drawl came from behind them.

“I’ll thank you to take your hands off my sister,” and the deserter found a revolver pressed firmly against his temple.

“Well I’ll be God da-” said the deserter, but he did not finish his blasphemy before Little Red-Cap’s brother blew his brains out.

The Ugly Bugling

Once upon a time there was a mommy grasshopper. She was very excited. She had laid her eggs back in the autumn, pushing each one carefully beneath the soil to keep it warm all through winter. Now it was spring, and the time had come for her eggs to hatch!

(It may be worth noting at this point that the mommy grasshopper was a ghost- a fact only tangentially relative to our story.)

She watched with pride as one by one her babies tunneled their way out of the soil. Each one was a beautiful miniature version of herself (or her mate) called a nymph. The mommy grasshopper was feeling very pleased with the whole situation, and was just about to go ahead and follow the Light into her next incarnation when she noticed one nymph that just didn't look like the others. She moved over to it to get a closer look.

It was true that he had bold and dashing stripes like all of his siblings- and it was true that he had gloriously strong hind jumping-legs. But his body was oddly truncated- it looked almost humped, as though someone had just pushed his head and his tail toward one another. And speaking of his tail, he seemed to have a pair of... well, the mommy grasshopper wasn't sure what was protruding from the little creature's posterior, but she knew that no self-respecting grasshopper would be caught dead with them. And she should know because (as mentioned) she herself was a ghost!

The other nymphs soon noticed the ugly little bugling in their midst, and they immediately began taunting him. The ugly bugling started to cry- after all, he was only a very young bugling, and had not yet had time to grow accustom to the basic cruelty of the world. All he wanted was to be loved and accepted by his hundred siblings! Also he wanted some food, and the grass the other nymphs were gnawing on just didn't seem to do it for him. So he was sad, and he was hungry, and all in all a pretty miserable (and ugly) bugling.

Just then, a powerful creature landed in the thick of the nymphs and began casually eating them. The mommy grasshopper was, of course, horrified, but then she remembered the waiting Light, shrugged, and Moved On. The ugly bugling watched in terror as the nymphs were gobbled up one after another. He couldn't help but notice that the insect eating them was boldly striped, with powerful jumping legs- but no wings. The creature paused in its meal long enough to give him the eye.

"Oh hullo there," it said around the flailing leg of a grasshopper nymph in its jaws. "So sorry- didn't realize you were already here. Do you mind terribly sharing?"

"Sharing?" said the ugly bugling, still trembling a bit.

"Well yes- I mean, I realize that grasshopper nymphs are something of a delicacy, but I shouldn't think that a little lad like yourself would be able to eat them all without some assistance!" The larger insect chuckled and helped himself to another of the ugly bugling's brothers. Or possibly a sister- the ugly bugling wasn't sure.

"I wasn't... I mean, they're my siblings! I had no plans to eat them!" protested the ugly bugling, although now that the other bug mentioned it, it didn't sound like such a bad idea.

"Siblings? Don't be ridiculous! You're not a mewling little herbivore of a grasshopper! You're a proud and clever cricket, like me! We're omnivores, don't you know! Here, try one- you'll see what I mean."

The ugly bugling took a bite out of his closest non-sibling. It wasn't making fun of his stumpy body now!

"You're right!" he said, smiling. "They're delicious!"

And that's how the ugly bugling realized his destiny as a totally kick-ass camel cricket, and learned that the best revenge is eating your enemies alive.


(Cricket?)


(PS A special thank-you to Nathan for suggesting the title and inspiring the story. Also, he gets kudos for not saying "I told you so" too often when it turned out he was right about the original ugly bugling.)

Saving Stitch

They don't talk about me much. Or at all. I'm pretty sure the old poets never once mentioned me in their epics. No, it's my brother who has always received the attention, and really- who can blame them? He's beautiful, my brother. Beautiful and terrible, with wings that block out the sunlight, but you don't even notice because you're being blinded by the radiance of his face. His passage leaves people wounded, broken and bleeding, and still they cry out for him to return to them. Oh, please don't think I'm harboring any bitterness! I'm not, honestly- it's not my way. He can't help what he is any more than I can help what I am. He lets fly his poisoned arrows not just because it's what he does- it's what he is: Love. Love, Love: terrible and beautiful and inevitable. People have tried to resist him- but they all fall, in the end.

And after he has abandoned them I come along, and they resist me as well. I come with my needles sharp as arrows, with my thread soft as feathers; I come to sew up the holes punched in their hearts, but most of them don't want what I'm offering. That's the poison, I guess, affecting their minds. But just as my brother is a relentless hunter, I too am patient: an unparalleled stalker. Sometimes it takes me years, one tiny stitch at a time, but in the end very few can resist me forever. But they hate me for what I do- the one who cleans up the mess Love has left behind. And maybe that's why no one ever sang any songs about me. They'd rather have the glory of Love than the quiet soothing of my healing fingertips. They don't understand that without me, without the strength I stitch into their hearts, they will never be able to survive my brother's arrows. They think that what I do devalues what they've felt, and never stop to think that what I do makes it possible for them to feel it again- to feel it forever, without the anguish. No, when that final arrow pierces them, and stays, they give all the credit to him, and none to me.

But that's alright, because I don't do it for my own glory. I do it for theirs.

(Bits)

***

(A word about the relevance of today's photo- it made me think about the drilling force of love, which gave me the funny mental image of a modern Cupid using a drill to make multiple, neat holes into people's hearts. And I thought about all the holes that have been drilled into my heart over the years, and how much it sucked at the time, but that I always managed to heal up [more or less] eventually. Which made me wonder about who was doing the patching up...)


(A word about the illustration- this is actually a variation on a sketch that I did in my one of my sketchbooks a couple of years back... which in turn was part of a series of stitching women that I did. I popped out tonight's entry and it reminded me of the sketch, so I thought I'd revisit it. This new version was done pretty quickly in pencil, but I'm pleased with it nonetheless...)

Fulfilling

It had been a long while since I'd seen him, and I'll admit- I was nervous about the meeting. He had let me choose the place- said he didn't really know any of the joints around here- and I'd chosen the Moon and Sixpence. Low-key place where we could find some semi-privacy and a few good drinks. Maybe even some nibbles, who knows...

I approached the pub feeling more than a little sick. It was a feeling uncomfortably akin to a first date, but so much more horrifically worse. The emotions involved in this went way beyond any that might be connected with a potential romantic encounter. I took a deep, steadying breath and pushed open the door, managing to be equally terrified of him not being there, and of him already waiting.

Turned out he was waiting.

He'd taken a table about halfway back on the left, and already had a drink in hand. And he was smoking a cigarette, of all things. He'd never been one to smoke when I'd known him. He caught sight of me and I guess my face must have announced my disapproving shock, because he gave me a wicked grin as if to say, Hey, we're all adults here! But I noticed that he stubbed it out pretty quickly. We might both be adults, but I got the feeling there was a part of him just as anxious to not disappoint me as I was to not disappoint him.

I made my way over to the table and he stood up and suddenly I couldn't move- what was the protocol here? Did we hug? I'd never in my entire life wanted so badly to fling myself into the arms of another human; it was something I'd imagined countless times over the past sixteen years, but now that the moment had arrived I felt... frozen. Almost shy. The lump in my stomach rose to my throat, and I willed it to stay there, damn it, and to not make its way up to my eyes.

And then he opened his arms and I didn't care about anything but falling into them, wrapping mine around him and crushing him as hard as he was crushing me. He smelled like warm leather and Old Spice and jet fuel and yeah maybe those are all cliched man scents but whatever- it's what he smelled like, and the memories washed over me so that I didn't even care that I was drowning, and the lump in my throat completely ignored my instructions and broke, flowing out my eyes and streaming down my face, and he just held me tighter, held me until I couldn't breathe and I still didn't care because here he was at last, at last...

I don't know how long we stood there, but eventually we broke apart, and I groped blindly for my chair and he said,

"Ah shit, sweetheart- I didn't mean to make you cry."

I let out a shaky noise that might have been translated as a laugh and responded, "It's okay. I cry at the drop of a hat anyway. Don't you remember how you used to call me Sarah Bernhardt?" He grinned his devilish grin again and took a sip of his drink.

"Yeah, I do- geeze you used to holler about the tiniest things. It was hard as hell sometimes not to laugh at all your so-called sufferings." I raised an eyebrow and signaled for the waitress.

"Which is probably why you usually didn't bother!" He shrugged.

"Guilty as charged."

I ordered a gin and tonic (chilled, no ice) and while I waited for it we just sort of stared at one another. He, of course, looked exactly the friggin' same. Me- I know I was showing the years. How could I not? I didn't dare ask how it felt to see me this way, to see me as an adult. I was afraid of what the answer might be.

"God you're beautiful," he finally said. "You look so much like your mother."

"Funny, she says I look like you," I accepted my drink from the waitress with a nod and a tiny smile, and took a sip. The juniper hit my tongue and I immediately felt more in control of myself. "You should see your son. He looks even more like her. Which is to say, a lot like Grandpa."

"Well that's good. Your Grandpa was a good looking guy."

"So's my brother."

"Well he comes by it honestly."

We were silent again for a while. I knew I should say something- I was the one who had yearned for this meeting, after all- but I didn't know where to begin. I had so many questions, but I didn't want it to be an interrogation. I had so much to catch him up on, but I wanted to hear him talk, not me. I just wanted it to be natural- just the two of us shooting the shit, maybe talking philosophy if we got enough liquor in us. My brain flailed helplessly until I saw his eye fall on my wedding band.

"You got married," he said softly.

"I did."

"And I wasn't there..."

"Yeah you were, Daddy. Your spirit was, anyway," I started laughing and crying at the same time as I relayed the great Wedding Crasher incident, how a big gorgeous husky had somehow made its way into the Botanical Gardens and gone cheerfully about its goose-chasing business right in the middle of my wedding.

"We all agreed it was your trickster spirit," I explained, and he grinned again. God, he never smiled- it was always a grin with him.

"Well maybe it was. Who knows- my doings of the past few years are a bit fuzzy, you know?" He took another sip of his drink. "Does he treat your right?"

"Daa-aaad..."

"I mean it. I only get this one night to be all fatherly, and I want to know whether or not I need to spend it shooting out some guy's kneecaps."

"Honestly, Dad. Yes, he treats me right. I wouldn't have married him, otherwise. You think Mom would have raised me to take any shit?" This got a full laugh.

"No, I don't imagine she would. Hell of a woman, your mother."

"I know."

"So do you like being married?"

"Did you?" I shot back, eyebrow raised. He nodded, but not just in the way that means yes: it was also the way that means, I understand. The left side of his mouth quirked up as he responded,

"I'm glad you found someone to take care of you."

"We take care of each other."

"Well then I'm even more glad."

He signaled the waitress back over, told her to bring each of us another round. As she left I took control of the conversation again.

"Will you tell me what it was like? When you first met Mom?"

And he did. He told me all about falling in love with her, and knowing he wanted to be with her the rest of his life, and the insanity of marrying someone after only three months. He told me the fear and wonder of knowing his child was growing in her womb the first time- and again the second time. He told me about what it felt like to fly, to be alone with God in His silvery courts, far above the mountains. He told me how he felt about religion, and politics, and all the things I'd wished for so many years to be able to talk to him about. And we agreed on a lot of things, but we also argued- of fucking hell, we argued about some things- but it was so good to have that chance. And by the time the pub was closing down and kicking us out I felt like maybe I was starting to get a grip on the man my father was.

"How much time do we have left?" I asked as we wandered into the crisp, clear autumn night.

"I have to leave at sunrise," he said. "Which is in about... five hours."

I was silent for a moment, face turned up to the stars. "You want to go for a drive?"

***

Two hours later we were at the coast. Specifically at my little slice of the coast: Short Sands. We sat on a piece of drift wood that was actually more like a tree, and watched the black water push white foam back and forth, just like we were passing a bottle back and forth.

"This is where I learned about passion," I confessed. "This is where I finally met God. When I surf I think I understand how you felt when you flew. I understood why you'd crawl back to base with a broken clavicle, and not get it seen to- because no amount of pain was worth being grounded."

"Your mother told you about that, huh?"

"Mom likes to make sure we remember you weren't a saint."

"Oh does she?"

"She does it at my request. Someone has to balance out your mother." He laughed at that, and told me a few more stories about him not being a saint.

More hours passed, and I did everything in my power to ignore the gradually lightening water. I wasn't sure when he'd disappear. How do the Powers That Be decide these things? Would it be when the sun cleared the horizon, or when its rays finally touched him? Would it be all at once, or would he fade out with the ocean mist? Should I watch, or shouldn't I? Could I bear it again?

In the end I laid down with my head in his lap, and he stroked my hair, singing the silly little lullaby he'd written for me when I was a child. I thought sleepily to myself that I should have remembered to bring a guitar...

When I woke I was alone again, face pressed hard against the bleached-bone tree.