Cradle’s Mercy
She keeps souls in a skull she wears around her neck. It’s not many, mind you. She may save only a chosen few without being discovered. Cradle, she was named, but why, by whom, she’d long since forgotten.
For time eternal, she stood in governance at the Fourth Gate. Those whom negligence caught resided within. Automobiles held majority stake here. She tidied here and there, re-positioning a tire, twisting a wheel, as cars caught fire, rolled down embankments and ran into countless trees.
Through endless nights, she bore witness. Her claws grasped the iron tightly as she watched each hateful loop. Born from fire, she had no soul, but she had formed compassion over thousands of years. It was tucked away from the fiery glint of his Majesty’s eye, and it had flourished in private. And so it was that once every few years she stole one burnt offering for herself.
One soul intrigued her now. She watched this former man, Jim, flip his Pontiac Sunfire end over end countless times. He suffered more than most in the never-ending night. He touched her, as did the other truly repentant, tugging at her time-built heart, because there was no absolution in hell. His self-hating soul was forever trapped in Cradle’s dominion.
On fate-night, he had suffered only minor injuries – the Devil wrapped drunks in his protection, for they were ever useful – but his three children and his wife had been smashed. His twin boys survived the car, but died on the side of the rain-slicked road. His wife suspected Jim was cheating, but Tequila shots were his only companion at the bar that evening. Jim was keeping odd hours of late because he had been fired from his job and couldn’t admit it to Jenny. So it was that he was hiding tears when he pulled up outside the theatre to collect them.
This Jim-of-everlasting had long since become self-aware, losing his private battle each night. Cradle watched him cut off his hand and sew up his mouth, but of course The Darke would not be thwarted by such. Each night at 8:45 pm, he would sprout a new hand, his lips would spring open and the pain would begin again. He never dulled to the pain, in fact, it grew more insistent every night, each recitation of his punishment, each blood and rain soaked episode bringing him freshly exceeded barriers of despair.
Cradle saw Jim-soul’s beautiful upturned eyes, watched him swallow shot after shot through gritted teeth, watched him as he placed one hand on the wheel, neck cords standing out from the strain, trying not to shut the door, trying in vain to shout a warning to Jenny. Forever trying and failing.
Cradle saw him lift the keys and start the car, calmly tapping the wheel to the beat of the music, while his eyes reeled in their sockets like an animal with its paw in a snare. Jenny strapped the twins in their carseats and Annie, his girl, scooped the last of the movie popcorn into her mouth. All the while he brimmed, almost exploded with exceeded effort to change the past, forever locked into who he was and wanting what he could never have again.
Every movement, every word, was a contortion of pain, not only for Jim, but also for Cradle. Through the floating bars, her blood-red eyes held his wild blue orbs. Tonight, she knew, he would again swerve into traffic and skid, his reflexes soft from the drink, and the skid would turn into a roll and the roll would crush skulls and he would sit stupidly, hands limp by his sides as bystanders pulled his twin boys from the backseat through a trail of his wife’s blood. And his daughter’s long black hair, Annie-that-was, was far from where it should be, too far from the rest of her…
Enough! she thought. Her decision made, she had to move quickly. She passed in smoke through the gates, with a rusted squeal. One nod of her horned brow and the scene evaporated, leaving only Jim, a shucked husk of a soul. With one huge rust-colored palm, she tugged roughly at the filament that tethered his soul to her level, deftly rolled it into a meatball-sized shadow and placed it into her skull locket.
He would not be free, not yet, but she would take him to swim in the Abshe, where wrung out souls that had lost their humanity were tossed to feed the beasts. A great ocean of grief, it met the Skye at the very end – a time eternal of sunset. Cradle had been told long ago that if a soul could transverse the black waves, spider-crabs, wailing serpents and other sea haunts, they would be granted passage to the other side.
Cradle peered out through the haze of fire and the wail of screeching tires. No one bore notice, so she unfurled charred wings, stamped her feet and thrust upward, rising fast. Passing through hazy barriers, she heard the screaming of billions of souls, twisting and writhing with eternal agony. She shook her head to lose the cacophony and broke through the filmy barrier, thrusting her hooves down hard, landing in tar-like mud at the edge of the great sea.
It was night here too, but stars shone, which they were never allowed to do below. They were breathtaking, too low by half, making the air thin. Cradle breathed deep and although she missed the taste of smoke, it was pleasant enough air – purer than her level. She checked that she was alone, then tucked her wings back self-consciously and opened her locket.
Jim-that-was poured forth in a silver stream, materializing in an inch of gruesome water, the foam teeming with sea-lice. His figure shone in the murky darkness. Cradle smiled at him - a toothless, terrifying sight.
He looked up at her blinking slowly, then behind him at the vast filth. “What new torture is this?”, he asked, bewildered, but not scared. He was past that now. Cradle had not spoken in a very long time and her voice was scratchy from disuse, like grating metal.
“No trick, my Jim. You can see them again.” With a wave of one huge hand, she showed him his family in the car in the moment before it all changed. The image hung there a moment above them, then faded into the darkness. “Whole, like you are now.” She pointed over his shoulder and his eyes followed her hand. “Swim hard to the end. It will be long with many beasts.” She breathed in deep and flung her enormous arms wide to take in the ocean ahead. “I gift this to you. A chance.” She spoke the last word with reverence. It didn’t exist on her plane, not for her, not for anyone save those few souls she carried in her locket.
Wanting to believe, Jim-soul said, “Why? Why would you do this?” Cradle leaned down, her large black and red form dwarfing his own and touched his cheek. It burned where her crusted forefinger lay, but he ignored it. “You fight for them still.” Cradle paused, considering, then added, “Now fight for yourself.”
At that, she rose and motioned with her hand, giving him a hard push deeper into the water without touching him. He looked around quickly and hoisted a slimy black rock the size of his fist from just beneath the scummy surface. He nodded at Cradle, took a deep breath and dove in.
She hoped he was ready to fight the beasts ahead for his salvation. She had no idea how many of her souls had made it, she hoped all of them had, but she would never see for herself. Those born below were terminally possessed.
She watched him swim away, worrying and then, chewing on one fire-blackened lip, cheated a bit. With another wave of her hand, she pulled a tusked tuna from the water and clawed open it’s belly. She tossed it far to Jim’s right and watched the razor sharks frenzy towards the unexpected feast. She stared at his receding figure for a few minutes more. He was strong, she thought. He might just... Hot tears ran down her cracked skin as, staring up at the stars now, she began to sink.
TRUTH
Truth is alive
The antithesis of Lie
More than a concept, idea
Or thing
Truth is a Person
Truth can be you
Or anyone else who uses it
It fills the heart of those who hear it,
Truth has a voice
Anyone can hear it;
Babes speak the truth
Out of their mouths.
It sounds like a sweet babbling brook;
A soft song emanating from thin air
Arising from your own soul spirit
When all is quiet
At certain moments maybe alone at night
When peace a companion
Of truth soothes you
Truth is blind
Lady Justice,
Balance in her hand,
Two edged sword in the other
Represents truth
“What is truth,” asked one named Pontius
Pilate did not know as he washed his hands
And Truth remained silent.
He proclaimed to the screaming crowd,
He spoke the truth when he said:
“I find no guilt in this man, . . .”
. . .Truth,
In image of man,
Said: “I am the Way, the Truth and the Life.”
Truth is invisible but can be seen
The blind can see it
Those who deny it, cannot, (will not).
A heavy load carried
To them that suppress it
Weightless to those who admit it
Sets free all who welcome it
Truth is eternal, has always lived
Is alive, will never die,
Cannot die.
It is the same yesterday, today and forever.
Truth is light, as death is dark
Truth is power - raises the dead
Cannot be buried or bought
It’s free.
Lies are expensive and can hurt and kill
Truth destroys lies -
Priceless.
Truth cannot be buried or hidden,
Is light, shines in darkness - guides, leads,
Fire and lightening obey Truth
Mysterious to define or describe,
No prison can confine, no force can manipulate
She is beautiful, she can break you out of captivity
Even when fear denies her, or guilt rejects her
She is faithful,
Courage follows her around admiring her.
When death grabs and bullies who mentions her name
She defends valiantly.
Truth spoke long ago,
Still heard today,
“Know the truth and it will set you free.”
Always Around
I lay down I my bed
It's always around 12:30
And I feel my heart falling out of place
I feel my skin wishing yours was there to warm it
I feel my bones crack.
I close my eyes
It's always around 1:15
And I see you.
I see your hand in mine
I see your sunshine smile
I see you and I.
I fall asleep
It's always around 2am
And I dream of you to get myself through the night.
You always kiss me right before I wake up.
But then the earth tilts
And my heart goes back to its palace of bones
It's always around sometime
That I am always wanting you here.
-AshleyAnne
CRUSH
She brought him chocolates
And was made up like a beauty dressed to kill
On a work day, (for him, no doubt)
Mascara, lipstick and a preppy, glowing, cheerful demeanor
Of playful personality.
On the last day of school
A last prep day for him
The final one
She was coy
Distant but close
Flitting with little objects at her teacher’s desk.
He pondered a hug
Thinking it would never occur
Her flirtation had sustained over 3 years’ time
Culminating at this final day
Chocolates she again gave him
3 expensive packages and kinds
Truffles
Dark with sea salt
And another very rich one.
The day went fast
But not before
She enjoyed his taquitos de ojo
Reflected from his pupil back to her
Of her youthful coy beauty
He would stare and smirk
Her cuteness beyond description
As she explained
Inevitably throwing a pen at him
With mixture of frustration and feigned neutralized anger.
He strategized, how would he trigger a hug
At the parking curb
Where his pickup awaited
And her own SUV
She packed and picked up her own baggage
Nervously commenting on the cluttered floor board
Refusing his advances
To help.
Then she straightened
And closed the passenger door
Can you give me a hug, he asked
“No, I won’t,” she responded
With muffled, firm voice
Extending her hand for a handshake as he had expected
Suppressing resentment,
He took her right hand
Firm it was and tanned forearm
Strong grip and with smooth motion
Attempted to lead, guide her up the 8 inch curb
Her body stiffened but followed his lead up the concrete
He felt her discomfort, resentful awkward
He felt rejection yet again.
Like in times past when touch
Some welcomed and subtle
Others blocked
Like at the cafeteria two days prior at the 6th graders dance
When he and she had formed an arch with their arms
And he at the peak touched her index finger
And grasped it between his thumb and own index finger
And she pulled away
And he embarrassed
Rejected yet another time
And then at the parking spot
He walked away to her driver side door
At front of SUV
Waiting yet wanting to leave
But she extended her arm again
He felt her sense of apology
Her sense of knowing his hurt
He took her hand hesitantly, thinking
Considering rather to hold an offense
Shook it while mustering strength to say
Cheerfully, Okay Sister, it’s been good knowing you
In a Texas accent kind of way
She grinning sheepishly.
“I probably won’t be able to go”
Meaning his Five Italian Retirement Dinner invitation
It’s ok, he said
“But I might go to the reception”
He said, good, I hope you can
Yet knowing she probably wouldn’t,
He would never see her again
His greatest remorse.
Then he walked toward his own
She stopped him with her eyes
Having stepped into the vehicle fumbling with the door
Playing with the dash, the ignition, stalling
Sitting back like a swagger, arms extended at the wheel
Now like a different person
Confident, sexually appealing
“Trujillo,” she said
And he could not remember what she had said
But it was also laden with remorse
Yet spoken with wistfulness and flirtatious, confident independence
Of a woman who could have yielded to temptation
But admirable that she or had not
He turned to go to his pickup
She closed the door and caught him again with her eyes
And voice
“Trujillo, hay tomate una por mi,” cockily, sexily spoken
Yet another on rare occasions he had before heard such tone
Another side of her past perhaps
What? He asked her, knowing what she had first said, yet taken by surprise
“Hay tomate una por me,” she repeated,
(Have one on me)
I will, he responded as cheerfully as he could
Feeling hypocrisy of the greatest kind
Feeling a strong reflex to hand sweep a breath kiss at her
As she looked at him with a beaming smile
But he suspected repercussions and resisted that urge
Climbing into his own vehicle
Feeling empty and stupidly foolish
Thinking he would never, ever see her again.
fleeting.
I've been looking for the light, but not the type that brightens darkened nights.
'cause lies get hard to fight, despite your plights, enlightened hearts ignite.
a world caught up in scriptures tight, deranged psychotic mixtures typed by angels from a different Reich, your minds the force that forms your life.
Bluebird
You’re naked.
Alone and naked.
Under the shower you hear the sounds of the busy traffic. You masturbate to a poster that you have of some guy who appeared in indie movies. You let that small part inside you grow, blossom into something else.
You’re not yourself. Alone and tired, you’re slumped on the couch watching reality TV. You laugh at things you don’t understand. You care for people who are so unlike you. You become the unbecoming.
You remember that in the same exact day, one year ago, you were once crowned a god of small things. A god of big things. You were cocooned within a protective sheath of friends and acquaintances. You’re on the first few steps of being lonely.
You sleep at night feeling strapped to your bed. Even as you try to shift and kick, you’re tied up. Deep inside your own dreams, you hear the whispers. They’re like bubbles of enlightenment. They keep rising to the surface within you. You feel the ache of not allowing them out. They burn and scratch at your ribs, at your temple and at your fingertips. You open your eyes and there it is: the bluebird.
It’s strange you haven’t realized up until that moment how this bluebird is you. It has been you from the first moment. You might be awkward and scary on the outside. You drive people away. They just have to come closer, too close for your own comfort. Only for them to run away as if the Hell hounds are behind them. You’re the Hell hound. But you’re also the bluebird. You’re the unbecoming. You materialize into this beautiful being that only the few who have touched your soul can see.
The bluebird always knows the truth. It watches from above, taking notes on what everybody is doing. You try not to watch the crowds from your past. You try not to sneak behind their chatter and their gatherings. But you can’t help the loneliness that is nagging at your heart. You’re also jealous for being alone when there’s so many of them. They say loneliness is the human condition, and you really hate being in an overcrowded room. But still it hurts to feel rejected. That’s why when you are a bluebird, you never feel avoided or ignored. You’re everywhere. You land on whichever branch you may please. You sneak into the tombs of ancient Egyptian carcasses. You stand stop the Pyramids. You surf with the Mediterranean waves. You breathe in the scent of the 40-years-old buildings and houses. You sleep on the roofs of decaying statues. You are the city grouped into a single being: you.
Lonely and free.
You reach that state of mind and soul after a while. As you flutter your wings and feel your soul liberating from all the myths, preaching, memories and beliefs, you truly lose that sense of hatred toward yourself.
You were afraid of loneliness. You were afraid of admitting who you really are. You were afraid of being that small girl that everybody points at. You were afraid of them putting that scarlet letter on you. Fear is the mind killer, The Bene Gesserit once said. Fear is a pimp, your own poet Naguib Soroor once said. Fear once told you not to be a bluebird, but now you are. Fear once told you not to be lonely. But now you are.
Fear is afraid of you.
I’ll Call Her Emma.
She is beautiful, but she doesn't know it. Her messy, dirty blonde hair flows from the top of her head down to a little past her weak shoulders. Her nose is a little larger than average, but her lips are tiny and a shade of light-fleshy pink. Her vivid, dark blue eyes dance in a way that seems to say she's lively yet calm. Her pale, fair skin seems almost malnourished. She had a pronounced jaw line, which sticks out from her neck. She stands about average height, but she is so thin and lanky that she seems taller than she actually is. She always wears long-sleeve shirts and hides her hands in the sleeves that are too long. She also always wears dark jeans that seem so bland but compliment her personality. She always wears mismatched socks and grey converse. She is shy, but she can be goofy when she gets to know someone too well. She is an introvert. Her thoughts run a million miles an hour. She loves art. She paints some and sketched almost all of the time. She also writes poetry, reads emotional novels, and loved indie films. She plays the piano and cello. She listens to everything from classical to jazz to blues to pop punk to dubstep to death metal. She is so forgiving and kind that she lets people hurt her. She has learned, however, not to trust hardly anyone. She never opens up to anyone who doesn't open up to her first. She has no clue what she wants to do in life. She aspires to be an artist, but she know it usually doesn't pay well. She doesn't go out much. She's never invited to parties. Instead, she usually stays in her room and expresses herself. She has always hated styles and fashions. Her wardrobe hasn't change since seventh grade, and she intends to keep it that way. She feels that if one needs nice and expensive clothes to cover up one's shallow personality, then one isn't worth talking to. She likes learning about different cultures and ideas. She tries to keep an open mind about things, and she doesn't lean in any specific political direction. She hopes one day to move to New York, although she has no clue where to get the money to do that. She's an amazing person. She loves life but hates living.
The Crow & The Robin
I am the crow, and you are the robin.
I am the mess, and you are perfection.
I am broken, and you are still in tact.
I am hopeless, and you are the impact.
I am the pain, and you are the morphine.
I am the night, and you are the morning.
I am bitter, and you are the sugar.
I am worse, and you are the better.