"Eight pieces, three days, four kings, two nights. Don't ask me which night. Night or knight, I've no idea. But that's what I got for you."

You blinked at me for a second, and I flinched. It was always so much to explain, wasted so much of their precious time, and never made anything any clearer. There were things I was never allowed to say, things they always wanted. Yet here we are, about to embark on the same old dance.

"The hell does that even mean?"

Yep, here we go again.

"Okay, um, let me backtrack."

There were certain words I was supposed to avoid, in order to gain trust and respect, and portray that my information was in fact, factual. Um, was one of them. I was never good at my word choice- never passed that part of the course. Desperate times, I guess. Something else we're not supposed to mention.

"You're first question, was whether or not you should embark on your quest to usurp the Queen?"

Your gaze darkened beneath the fading colors of dusk, and I thought you might push me off the edge.

"Sure, yeah. I did eventually ask that question," I rolled my eyes at you, "to which you responded, 'Should you?' like I should know! I'm asking you!"

Okay, but now you're getting on my nerves.

"Oh, my apologies, your majesty, I thought you wanted information! I didn't know you needed people to make your decisions for you as well?" I crossed my arms, smirking as you bristled, this time of indignation rat the cold.

"Oh, my apologies, your majesty, I thought you wanted information! I didn't know you needed people to make your decisions for you as well?" I crossed my arms, smirking as you bristled, this time of indignation rather than cold.

I actually almost began to possibly maybe like this cliff.

Yeah, right.

"I told you not to call me that," you growled, looking over your shoulder. As if you thought you seemed so important that someone would actually be following you. Heck, if I was following you, I'd be grossed out and be on my way in an hour. If this was the runaway rebel leader prince, then find me another rebel leader. This guy was a prick.

"Well?" I sighed, "you know the answer..."

You frowned at me.

I wouldn't have cared. I would've played the part and sent you on your way, gone to take care of things that actually mattered, if... If you weren't the key to everything. So much pressure relied on this meeting, and I couldn't tell whether or not you saw how much that pressure was killing me. The pressure I wouldn't have to hold if it weren't for this cliff, the cliff that started taking them... The people who mattered. They would know what to do. The future they so delicately crafted... And I might screw it all up. Stupid word choice.

"I'm going to kill her." You snapped me out of my reverie, back into this hell of a conversation.

I'm not allowed to approve. But we needed him to kill the queen. So I just nodded, adjusting my cloak.

"And your second question?"

I needed you to repeat it, just so that you understood.

"What do I need to do so?"

I nodded at you, taking a deep breath.

Give them a hint, and they'll create their own solution. Make them think it'll happen if they do it a certain way, and they'll do it. Be vague.

"Eight pieces, three days, four kings, and two knights."

"Or nights."

"Or nights."

Then you started doing the most curious thing.

You started laughing.

"Yeah, that's not an answer. You're coming with us."

"I'm- what?"

And before I could even register your words, or the scars on your face as you lunged closer, I was falling- the stars shining above me in the sky, growing farther away as I joined the others, falling ever closer to the waves of the unforgiving sea.

It is with deep gratitude I write to acknowledge all you have done for me this winter. I know I am not amongst the most prolific, well-spoken or intelligent in the group. I know I don’t read or write as much as others (especially lately). I know I have been largely slacking on my likes, follows and reposts, which makes me feel bad on Discord as I see I am missing some really great content. I know it has been such a long time since I have participated in a challenge and I missed so many great ones, both reading and writing them.

Yet this platform has been like an invisible hand holding mine through my seasonal depression. Each time I venture to share my heartspeak I receive nothing but positivity, love, encouragement and understanding.

This winter was the worst in a long time. I abandoned nearly all of my positive habits which have been my stabilizers over the years. This resulted in me shedding all the tears my dehydrated self (so much bourbon) could muster. Each morning I spent 2-3 hours lying in bed convincing myself to stay alive first. Get out of bed second. And so on and so forth until I found myself washed (most of the time), dressed (all of the time thankfully), and at my desk at work, where suddenly I fit again.

If it weren’t for @fudo, @ledlevee and @putski, I may have not written or socialized the entire winter. If it weren’t for The Prose, I might not have made it through alive.

So if you ever wonder if you make a difference in the world, know that if you read, liked, reposted, followed and especially commented on one of my sporadic posts this winter, you helped save a life. I can’t tag all of you for fear of missing someone and creating a hurt where I am only trying to pay back love, but if you are reading this, I am definitely speaking to you.

And of course my indebtedness to @jeffstewart and @A and @mamba and the other Prose ideators and administrators, known and unknown to me, knows no bounds.

I feel renewed this morning, woke up wanting to enjoy living instead of convincing myself to stay alive, so I know the depression has passed until late fall. And the very first thing I had to do, was say thank you to y’all.

Heartfully,

Mee Jong

I have words to say.

They're not the most important words.

But they're important.

And I need to say them to somebody important.

I need to scream them off the rooftops.

I need to collapse in the town square, tears on my face, begging for someone to listen.

I need to say them behind a podium in front of the president of the United States, in front of the whole goddamn United Nations.

But I guess everybody feels that way.

The image which haunts Lorelei is an unexpected one. It is not a memory of moonlit trysts, or discreet midday rendezvous, though there had been plenty of those. In fact, she could hardly recall those moments anymore, they having faded into the fog of times past as her love for Julien somehow grew stronger in the wake of their lived, though unshared tragedy.

No, the image that remained with Lorelei was the memory of three bronzed young men sweating under a brassy summer sun, the trio working together, building a home for the one of them who was newly wed, with each striving to outdo the others in front of the new bride, and each having reason to want to.

The young men worked together in the same manner in which they had played as boys, missing no opportunity to either whole-heartedly help one another, or to light-heartedly slander one another’s efforts, whichever the situation called for in the moment. And from the sidelines Lorelei watched her home rise from their calloused, but caring hands the same way she’d watched them as a child, wanting to be a part, but knowing she would be in their way. The boys had been the best of friends for as far back as Lorelei could remember, clear back to when she was little more than a babe watching their hi-jinx from the prison-like confines of her shaded porch, longing to be big enough to join them in the yard for their games. Lorelei had loved these three all her life long.

The first of the three boyhood friends was her own brother Michael, four years Lorelei’s senior and forever her idol; the boy who could do no wrong in her eyes, nor in the eyes of any other in their small town. Beautiful, smart, athletic, and the self-proclaimed protector of his younger sister. That was her Michael.

The second of the boys would become her husband. Julien, the dusty and brash one. Even as a boy Julien had seemed larger than life, and had grown into a man even bigger. Julien first swore to marry Lorelei when she was seven years old, and he twelve. She would never forget the jiggly feeling inside her when Julien had first taken her tiny, vulnerable hands in his own. She had committed herself to Julien then and there, before she was old enough to know what love was, as he gazed straight-away through her eyes and into her soul while solemnly vowing to her, "Don't laugh, Lorelei. I am going to marry you, I swear it. So you must promise me now that you will never love another."

Unable to voice a response, Lorelei had given affirmation to his childish promise with the nod of her head, though even back then she had known the nod was a lie. But she never, all through the years, doubted that Julien had meant his vow, as he took pains to remind her over the course of their lives by insisting that he be the first to hold her hand, and the first to kiss her lips. Julien had been her first for nearly everything.

The third boy, though. It was that third boy whom Lorelei’s fascination revolved around. Rainey, the quiet boy. Rainey was Lorelei's true, if secret love. She had never once looked at Rainey Davan (and she had looked at him a million-billion times) without longing. But Poor Rainey never promised Lorelei anything. He was too quiet, too shy. In all those years Rainy rarely even spoke to her that his tawny cheeks did not blush pink. But he was always there, quietly in the background, quick to help, or quick to hug. And their eyes always met, and her heart always flinched, but there was always Julien between them... right up until that night when he wasn't.

Julien was away at college, Rainey was not. Their meeting that night was accident, or fate, who knows which? The dock was her quiet place, so she was startled, if not disappointed, to find Rainey there sitting alone in the dark. She sat down beside him, their bare feet dangling in the cool water, he as quiet as always while crickets, and bullfrogs, and lightning bugs made light of the solemness surrounding them.

”Are you really going to marry him?”

”Yes. I suppose.”

His breath became ragged. “What will I do then?”

The despair clotting his throat was too much for Lorelei to bare. She would never hurt Rainey for anything, so her hand found his lying on the weathered boards of the dock and rested gently atop it. She could not see his face in the darkness, but she could feel his warmth, and the pulsing of his heart as her own sensed it’s anguish.

”You have waited too long, Rainey. He has already asked me, and I have already said yes.” They were the proper words, though in their own longing they lacked the necessary conviction.

”He claimed you when we were ten.”

”He has always loved me.”

”So have I.”

And rhythmic waves slapped the dock, rocking them. And cool winds caressed their skin, chilling them. And a waning moon shone, speckling black the water, illuminating their furtive love in it’s pale light. And so it happened that Julien was not the first for everything.

Of course, Julien returned come spring, a budding lawyer. The wedding was in the fall, with winter whispering the breeze, and secrets shadowing the leaves. And the honeymoon was long for her, and the Keys as quiet as Rainey, and the ocean as restless as she. And man and wife secretly pretended it was the first time as they explored one another, sharing themselves as love requires. For she did love Julien. He was easy to love. He made love easy. So it was with a surprising unsavoriness that Lorelei discovered what she had always conjectured; that one can indeed love two.

But how could she ever be happy with two? And how could she ever be happy now with one?

A daughter came first, with Rainey’s eyes, then a son with Julian’s. And the girl was shy, and the boy clever, and Julien watched them both grow with interest, but if he wondered he never did so aloud.

And Rainey and Michael went into business together, building houses, and Julien‘s practice grew, and the three of them became as successful as the little town would and could allow them to be, and all were happy, but one. And Rainey Davan never married, and everyone knew why, but one. But the secrets never told themselves, nor the whispers, and her guilt consumed her from the inside out, and Lorelei wondered that Julien never wondered.

It was a weeknight, when her brother Michael was murdered. Lorelei could remember exactly which night, it being her last one with Rainey. Being in business together it was easy for the law to assume Rainey a motive, and so it did, and so the town did, particularly when a witness came forward, declaring the height to be right, and the build… though the witness had not seen the face.

Of course Julien defended Rainey. Julien‘s show was compelling, too, but whispers are too much for truth, and secrets, so Rainey hanged as they all knew he would. Lorelei watched from her husband’s side as her other half died. And though her breath caught once, she did not cry, nor he. She could not, could she? But she could have told. And she wondered that he didn’t? Ever the quiet one, Rainey Davan, right up to the last. Always too quiet for his own good.

But love does not end with death, and Lorelei’s did not. And in the dark of night she slipped away to one love, as always. And as always, the other love watched her go. And as always, the one patiently awaited her. And as always, the other roiled behind.

But she was not bitter as her finger blindly traced the name carved in the stone. How could she be, when she was alive, and still able to love? And she wondered at the behaviors love inspires? For it was love that kept Rainey quiet, when an alibi would save him. Just as it was love kept her quiet, when that alibi was she.

And love reveals itself to each of us differently; some cheating for it, others dying for it, and some? Well, some will kill to keep it.

And that kind of love is still love, is it not?

That killing kind of love is still love.

(Inspired by Lefty Frizell/ Johnny Cash’s “Long Black Veil”. I am personally partial to Lefty’s haunting voice on this tune, but either will skin the cat.)

Ricky’s old man was killed in November of 08, if my memory serves. He was a drunken gambler, who was stabbed during a game of cards, or over a can of soup or something. The gossip mill was operating in full force when this went down, so I still don’t know which story was true, and which were fabrications. This was right at the onset of the recession, and people were looking to cling on to anything that wasn’t their own life. And Ricky’s situation provided just that.

I really felt bad for him, you know? I really did. But part of me realized that yeah, of course your old man getting murdered was going to mess with your head, but had he stayed alive, I think the damage would have been just as bad; you know? Maybe that’s a terrible thing to say, but we tend to make martyrs of the dead. That man was no father of the year.

Anyway, the guy was just a sad case all around. I truly believe that some folks are just born without a chance. It’s like everyone tells them from birth that they’re nothing, and that they’re never going to amount to anything, and the trauma brought on by all of that creates its own self-fulfilling prophecy, if that makes any sense. You know, if you hear something enough, eventually you’re going to accept it as the truth.

Poor Ricky just had nowhere to turn. I was his friend, but I realize now that I could have been a better one. I could have asked him if he needed to talk, or told him that things would be fine in the long run. But I never did. We just played Xbox and then basketball down at the Gyrel, which was a small little skatepark on the corner of Aaron and Normandy. And when the guys from across the river would come over to play some pickup, they’d start razzing Ricky like you wouldn’t believe.

You see, it wasn’t just his father dying that made Ricky the brunt of adolescent brutality. His mother shacked up with one of her nursing friends, and swore off men forever not long after, and his older sister, Jenna, downed a bunch of sleeping pills and found herself in the emergency room getting her stomach pumped on more than one occasion. Real suicide attempts or a cry for help? It’s hard to tell, but either way, the gossip spread through the town like wildfire, making it impossible for Ricky to get away from it.

He would go to the Gyrel to distance himself from everything that was going on in his house, only to find that his dirty laundry was the main topic of discussion amongst his peers.

Ace Langston, Jerry Barthe, and Jeremy Mann were the worst. Those guys would never shut their mouths and I mean like never. They’d say things like, “Man, I’m hungry, I’d sure kill for a can of soup,” or “I’m starting to get a headache. Does Jenny have any pills, or did she take them all?” They’d even ask Ricky if it was okay if they asked a girl out because they didn’t want his mom to get jealous. You know the kind of stuff that if you hear it all day, every day, you’re bound to crack, right? And, of course, I stood to the side as quiet and still as a porcelain monkey.”

But Ricky didn’t always stand around and take it either. He stood up for himself on occasion, but again, like I said, some people are just born with no chance. The guys from across the river were sons of councilors, city cops, and even school district officials. So, the couple of times that Ricky took a swing at one of the guys, he ended up getting suspended while they walked away without so much as a slap on the wrist. And being suspended meant even more time at home with his mother, her lover, and his depressed sister. Not an ideal situation for him.

So, anyway, getting to the day in question. It was in April; the snow was melting, but there were still small dirty banks up against the fence. We were playing a game of 21, me, Ricky, and Jordan Anderson. Jordan was another buddy, but much like myself, was timid and afraid of confrontation.

We played, and Ricky was actually laughing, you know? Jordan and I got there before Ricky, so we told each other that we weren’t going to bring up his situation at all. Like nada. Not a word. So we kept that promise, and he was having fun. It was nice. But then, of course, Murphy’s Law reared its ugly head. We used to say that Murphy’s Law was Ricky’s shadow, for how closely it followed him around.

The three numbskulls showed up and wanted to play 3 on 3. We said sure. Ricky’s smile faded, but he never turned down a pickup game. It wasn’t long into the game, though, before the taunts and the laughter started. They were dirty players too, elbows to the ribs, knees to quads, all of that. But it was pickup, so we never called anything.

Ricky threw out the occasional, “Shut up, man,” and “let’s just play ball.” He was getting more and more aggravated as the games went on. His face was fiery red, like he was going to burst a blood vessel or something.

Anyway, we still won the game, dirty or not, they couldn’t hold a candle to our skill level, ya know? As they’re leaving the Gyrel, Ace says, “If I had a lezbo mother, and pill swallowing sister, I’d never show my face in public. I’d probably just kill myself.”

And that was it. The straw that broke the camel’s back. Ricky was sitting on the asphalt, and he picked up a rock, probably a little smaller than my fist, that was sitting right under the hoop. He gets up and beams it as hard as he can. Whether he was expecting to come anywhere near them, I’m not sure. But it hit Ace right in the back of his head, and he dropped like a sack of potatoes. Within a millisecond he was eating pavement.

I don’t know what got into me. I think it might have been the look of raw horror and regret painted on Ricky’s face. It broke my heart. And when the guys turned around, I yelled. “Karma’s a bitch.” Ricky looked over at me, and I told him I was going to take the blame. Jerry and Jeremy came at me, and they gave me a pretty good beating. Ricky and Jordan wanted to jump in, but I just told them to get out of here. They went to help me, and I screamed, “GET OUT OF HERE, NOW!”

I don’t know why I took the fall for Ricky. I guess I just wanted the guy to catch a break for once in his life.

Anyway, I might not have said anything had I known that Ace was dead, but it was too late. The other two had called the cops and said it was me, and Ricky was long gone.

I did some time in juvi, keeping my mouth shut, figuring it wouldn’t be long, anyway. I had a clean record, and it was an accident. I just had a bad feeling that Ricky would have been worse off? Like, Murphy’s Law would have sent him away for life or something.

But when I heard that Ricky hung himself. I knew I had to tell the real story. The fact that his guilt over letting me take the fall resulted in his own death, is proof enough that Murphy’s Law did follow him around every step of the way.

Some folks are just born without a chance in hell.

Sharp, painful shards of a shattered mirror

Isolated bits pressed into each other

Blinding diversity burned into my eyes

A beautiful palette of dizzying colors

And maybe a little sprinkle of life

What I once saw as child's play

Now drowns me in a wave of struggles

And laughs at me with soft clinks

As I keep running in endless circles

Stab me with a fountain pen and I will bleed ink.

My black embryonic fluid will splatter into letters, words, and sentences on sheets of creamy, white paper and pool at my feet when I fall asleep, head on the desk, clutching the pen in my stiff hand.

My insides will splash and stain the nearby walls with confused ramblings and carefully edited thoughts that have been bouncing off the walls in my brain for as long as I’ve been able to think.

Can anyone remember the first thought they ever had? The first tear they ever shed? Their first nightmare?

I can.

The crazed mist of memories is all here, tucked neatly into the never sleeping beehive under my skull. How can humans not go crazy? So many thoughts fighting for a place in our heads. Every day more thoughts crowd into that finite space.

Stick a pen in my vein and let the thoughts drip out onto the pages before I lose what little sanity I have left. Any pain in there? Bleed it out onto the screen before me, so I can understand it. Regrets? Many. They live rent-free in my head until I pour my inky blood out onto hungry pages, looking for redemption. Dreams? They are gone. Taken by my past.

Writing is a sick business, done in the dark by sick people.

Speaking to the dead is really nothing new. You see it all the time in movies and television. Of course, in most of these depictions, the ghosts in question have some “unfinished business” that they need help taking care of, some task that was left incomplete in life or some mess that they need someone to tidy up. It is a trope that, in its overuse, has become quite cliché. It’s also pretty much bullshit.

I have been speaking to the dead for as long as I can remember. As a young child I would be greeted by strange people I had never seen before, and most of the time, would never see again. It was a while before I realized that I was the only person in my family that could actually see these people. My mother would often ask who it was I had been talking to while I was out in the yard. When I would tell her that I had been talking to a pilot that had crashed his plane in the woods near our house twenty years ago, or that there was a baker who had accidently burned up along with his bakery downtown, a few summers ago, My mother would just ruffle my hair and remark on how fine an imagination I seemed to have. From then on, I pretty much kept my conversations with the dead to myself. I never really felt the need to tell anyone, as I knew, most likely, not a single person would believe me.

I learned that the dead don't really have any lingering regrets about their lives, or have something left undone that was causes them unrest. The simple truth, is that many of them are incredibly lonely. Most of the conversations I have had were simply about how my day was going. Did I have any plans for the future? What was the last thing I had eaten? Was that old bat Mrs. Gerrinson still ruling the third grade classroom with a bee-hive hairdo and an iron ruler?

I’ve said all this so that you understand that thirty years later, when I woke up one morning feeling a presence sitting on the foot of my bed, it was really not very surprising to me. It wasn't until I saw the thin black mustache that used to be famous for the actor who wore it, before it was infamous for the dictator that burned it into the history books.

When I first opened my eyes, he was just sitting, staring at the floor, but as I stirred, he turned and looked straight at me. "Oh, you are awake!" I was surprised again, to hear him speaking in English, albeit with a very thick German accent. As he spoke a little flap of skin jiggled just below the very obvious gunshot wound in his head. For some reason, I was just as astounded by this small detail as I was by the fact that the father of the third Reich was sitting on the edge of my bed.

"Um, hello ... Adolf?" I stammered.

"Oh, you know who I am, dear boy? Good, good. I was a little nervous about introducing myself."

Hm. Is any life truly worth fighting for?

Life is something that provides the opportunity for experience. "Life" is essentially nothing without memory.

That is to say, a truly fulfilled life cannot be attained without experience.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with living a vicarious life... to a certain extent. There are limits to everything, including life itself.

Experience is what makes life worth living, and, dare I say, worth keeping.

What is the point of fighting for a live that one is not living?

Now, of course there are exceptions.

A vicarious life may bring a small handful of people in this world true, pure satisfaction. For instance, I'm currently squeezed between two pillows on a velvety couch covered in food crumbs, perfectly content with living my life through the lives of those behind the screen in my hands. There is nothing that I plan to do to change it. And I would fight to the death for this life.