Intelligence took the woman from thumb impression to signature.

Science is taking the woman from sign back to thumb impression.

Man is cutting the trunk of the tree on which he is sitting. One monkey dragged another monkey and fell into well it seems. Like that the countries or human beings fight among themselves and will disappear from the earth. Man fought the first world war and was foolish enough to fight the second one. The same foolishness may make him fight the third one. Man like that monkey takes all animals also and will disappear from this world.

Where will it go, the monkey’s character? Man won’t leave his ancestors characters.

soul pain,

the cold of it

is the heart of alone/ness

is like a familiar, empty chair,

that can never be filled,

rooms full of things, . .

now makes a house full of emptiness,

my soul is filled with pain,

i feel her invisible fingerprints on a table

the cold of emptiness, .

of missing her one/ ness

along with the gone/ ness

of her voice,

echoing up the hallway

though the lights are on

everything is dim

once it was a home

it can never be again,

she,

my love is gone,

our house an empty cavern,

sounds of stillness

hurt my ears, . .

drive sharp pangs of pain,

deep into my heavy, heavy heart

i miss you beyond words, .

lovely things i shared with you are disappeared,

even memories of strife,

only those of you, retained,

stored in my soul remain,

we can no longer share,

lovely ones,

perfect pure,

and tender sweet,

treasures of your precious, precious love,

only they remain,

though they be passed,

ohhh, so good,

once upon a time,

all of these swept away,

in an instant,

unannounced,

unexpected,

innevitable, . . .

ohhh, my love,

once upon a time,

but they hurt,

these overwhelming memories of you,

i can touch them with my spirit,

but not with my fingers,

to caress,

to warm me of this chill,

memories cannot comfort me,

and their hurt is real

the ache and the weeping,

burning grief are

all too real

though your clothes are here

they seem not too real,

as if belonging to someone else

as with your shoes,

as mere,

as if foreign objects,

your pillow is a torture

soft it was,

now, hard

as if it were a rock,

i shun to touch,

or even dare to bring it close

your bedside,

as if a wretched stranger,

though they,

these things be here,

there is no comfort,

only deepening of the void

. . . your robe has traces of your scent,

the things you touched surround me in a frozen state, .

i would trade them all away

only so that i could have you back

your warmth of body heat,

i force myself to hear your voice

to mix your presence of yesterday,

as in once upon a time,

when our souls merged with every breath,

but then,

with soon regret,

it makes the pain unbearable,

to the verge of craziness

self made victim to desperation,

how foolish,

stupid crazy

that i am,

to desperately again,

reach for you, .

as if this bad dream is unreal,

i reach for you through its haze,

i cringe at the thought

of hearing your voice through video,

i cannot endure,

i will not,

i will hide myself from these,

but then,

to your image move across a scene,

pictures of you on the walls,

send me reeling,

caught by surprise

i cannot stand

my head spins in a fog

i must lay down,

i lose my breath

my chest heaves

my sobs violently convulse,

i wish to die and be with you

loneliness profound is being without you

there is no greater pain of the soul

there is no relief,

there only remains

one way to ease the grief,

is to leave this house,

leave all behind

and move far away

The stranger knocked upon the door,

A creaking, wooden throb,

And someone on the other side

Unlatched and turned the knob.

Uncertainty, a soft, "Hello,"

And, "May I use your phone?"

The person on the other side

Appeared to be alone.

An observation taken in,

No pictures on the wall.

He pointed somewhere down the way-

"Go on and make a call."

The thunder boomed; the stranger stalled

As wires were cut instead.

The gentleman began to sense

A subtle hint of dread.

A conversation thus ensued-

"So what has brought you out?

The rain has flooded everything,

And wiped away the drought.

Say, did you walk, or did you drive?

Why don't I take your coat?"

The stranger slowly moved his arms,

A sentimental gloat.

The water from the pouring skies

Enveloped cloth and shoe.

"Say, would you like a place to sleep?

I'll leave it up to you."

The person on the other side

Discarded his mistrust.

The stranger said his tire was flat,

And shed the muddy crust.

"The phone won't work," he also said.

"It could just be the storm.

Perhaps I will stay here tonight,

To keep me safe and warm."

The patron of the house agreed.

He hadn't seen the wire.

The chilly dampness prompted him

To quickly build a fire.

"You have a name? They call me Ed.

My wife was Verna Dean.

She passed away five years ago

And left me here as seen.

I guess it's really not so bad.

We never had a child.

I loved that Verna awful much,"

He said and sadly smiled.

"No property to divvy up.

The bank will get it all.

Say, do you want to try again

To go and make that call?"

The stranger grinned and left the flame

As to the phone he strode.

Within his pocket, knives and twine

In hiding seemed to goad.

A plan was formed- he'd kill the man;

Eviscerate him whole.

The twine would keep him firmly held;

The knife would steal his soul.

A lusty surge erupted hence;

A wicked bit of sin.

The stranger hadn't noticed yet

That someone else came in.

About the time a shadow fell,

He spun to meet a pan.

The room around him faded out

As eyes looked on a man.

A day or two it seemed had passed,

And when he woke all tied,

The stranger gazed upon old Ed

Who simply said, "You lied."

Reversing thoughts, the moment fled

And Ed said in a lean,

"No worries, stranger. None at all.

Hey, look, here's Verna Dean!"

He looked upon a wraith in rage;

It seemed his little lie

Combusted in a burning fit-

He didn't want to die.

So many victims in his life,

Some fifty bodies strewn.

And now he was the victim; now

The pain to him was known.

The stranger fought against the twine,

And noticed by his bed

The knife once in his pocket left

A trail of something red.

A bowl filled full of organs sat

As Verna poured some salt.

She exited with all of them.

"You know, this is your fault.

We demons wait for just the day

The guilty take the bait

And play with matches one last time-

I simply cannot wait

To taste the death within your flesh;

The venom in your gut.

So now you know the way they felt-

Hey, you've got quite a cut!"

The person on the other side

Removed his human skin-

Before his wife came back for more,

He offered with a grin:

"Say, stranger, is there anything

You'd like to say at all?"

I looked at all the blood and said,

"I'd like to make that call ... "

‘We need you to get some Leprechaun gold George,’ Molly stated, as a matter of fact.

George sat there open mouthed.

‘Some what?’ he replied.

‘Leprechaun gold – that’s why you have the Myths and Legends survival guide,’ said Molly.

‘But why? Do you think we’ll need some kind of ransom for my parents?’

George was now finding it hard to take all this in.

‘No,’ said Molly, shaking her head. ‘Let me explain. When you go back to see the Captain and Lady Jane they won’t know who you are, right’

‘Yes, you explained that, but where does the Leprechaun gold come into it?’

‘I was coming to that,’ Molly protested.

‘Oh, sorry,’ said George.

‘Well, the first owner of Arrington hall, the man who had the house built and hid the scroll, realised the potential of the library, in being able to come back in time and visit past ancestors, like him for instance.’

‘Okay.’ George wasn’t convinced.

Molly rolled her eyes into the back of her head.

‘He also realised the importance of the three scrolls and that one day it was bound to happen, but he couldn’t risk just anybody hearing about it and then turning up and claiming to be a long lost relative or a future one for that matter. He figured he would have to come up with a secret code or something so they could be sure who it was.’

‘So when I go back into their history,’ he said, hurriedly, ‘they will know who I am and help me if I give them some of the Leprechaun gold.’

‘Yes, by George, he’s got it, if you’ll pardon the expression.’ She exclaimed. ‘A simple piece of normal gold was not enough. He had to make it something rare and very hard to get hold of.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ George said, nervously.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Molly, ‘the survival guide you have there was compiled by the same man, after extensive research. It’s the only one to have ever been published. Your parents must have taken it from the library to hide it in your trunk.’

‘But wouldn’t you have noticed them doing this?’ George asked.

‘Look, just because I’m a member of the undead, it doesn’t mean I don’t like to have a rest or a snooze now and again,’ She protested. ‘ It can get boring in here sometimes, especially when no-one visits for years on end, and as for that lot, well, they never stop sleeping – and snoring, loudly,’ she added, with consternation, glancing at the old paintings on the wall, with the ink figures fidgeting restlessly within their frames..

‘It all sounds a bit long winded,’ George moaned, ‘Couldn’t he have just invented a secret handshake or something?’

‘No, that would have been too easily tortured out of someone. This way was safer.’

George gulped.

‘Can I ask you a question?’ he said. ‘If it’s so hard to do, why isn’t Uncle Felix doing it, instead of me?’

Molly could see the point George was making, but she also understood what his Uncle’s reasoning might have been.

‘Maybe your Uncle thought it was time for you to know about the family’s legacy,’ she suggested, ‘or that you had come of age, what with everything that’s happened recently in your life.’

Molly hesitated for a moment, and then decided that George needed to know the full story.

‘Also,’ she said, ‘your uncle hasn’t been in the library since before you were born.’

George was taken aback. His Uncle had been only too eager to point him in the direction of the library that morning. What could have possibly happened to make him not want to go back in? George shrugged his shoulders. Maybe instead of explaining everything to him, and have George believe he was a mad old fool, his Uncle had reckoned it would be better for him to discover the library for himself.

‘So why won’t he come back in here then?’ George said.

‘Well,’ Molly hesitated, ’it’s because of something that happened in a book he was visiting.

She sat, or rather hovered, into the chair opposite George and bowed her head.

‘He fell in love,’ she murmured.

‘Really,’ George shouted, smiling. ‘Good for him – but I don’t understand, why is that such a bad thing?’

‘Because it could never last, it was doomed from the start,’ Molly cried. 'The story cannot continue beyond a certain point and characters cannot be taken out of the books, only the odd prop that is not central to the main storyline, like some of the things you see in this house, or the silver keys for example.’

‘Oh,’ George said, simply.

It was obvious from the forlorn look on everyone’s faces, and of Molly’s especially, that this had been a very upsetting time when it had happened, all those years ago. His Uncle had obviously been much loved and was now severely missed.

‘So….what happened,’ he stammered, ‘I mean what book did it happen in?’

Molly looked up, her ghostly eyes red around the edges.

‘Have you heard of a book called 1001 Arabian nights,’ she said.

‘Er….vaguely.’

’Well, basically, the story is based around the tale of a princess who is due to be executed the following day by her husband the King, but each night she tells him a story, leaving it at a crucial moment to be continued the following evening.

‘Eager to know how the story continues he gives her a stay of execution, so that he can find out what happened next. Well she managed to continue this for 1001 nights.’

George listened intently, while Molly continued.

‘Well, your Uncle Felix went into the book and fell in love with the princess. Believing that her time was running out and that she really would be executed he came up with a daring plan to rescue her. But, it all went wrong I’m afraid…he headed back to the portal hand in hand with the princess, chased by axe wielding guards. Except the only problem was’, Molly sobbed, ‘is that upon reaching this side he was on his own, she couldn’t come through. It was only a fictional book so it also meant he couldn’t go back into it either.’

‘Blimey, he must’ve been devastated,’ George said.

‘Yes he was. You see even though she was only a made up character George,’ Molly added, ’to him it was all very real. He swore never to come back into the library, and since that day, he never has.’

*

George stood, staring at the closed up doorway, in anticipation. The patterned paper on the wall started to come together and swirl around into a whirlpool of colours, like a dancing rainbow. It was as if the library knew what George’s intentions were. The colours then began to stretch out into the distance and it was almost as if he could see what was on the other side, but rippled, like looking into a pool of water, gently wafted by the wind. He felt every nerve ending in his body jangling within him, and on the tips of his fingers, as he gripped the Myths and Legends book tightly in his right hand. He had never felt so nervous in all of his life. He had also never felt so alive.

‘So you know what to do,’ Molly repeated.

‘Yes, Molly,’ he shouted back, ‘you’ve told me enough times and I’ve got the book as well if I need to check anything.’

He took several deep breaths and counted to three in his head before declaring;

‘Okay, here goes,’ he yelled.

He ran as hard and fast as he could across the room and, with a loud whumph, disappeared into the portal.

Walking a ladder

We track the same path

Never holding hands

Beginning at the same time

Eyes looked across and held

And feet stepped on.

Insanity makes distance

Seem so close

Almost touching becomes

Good enough.

I hear you inhale

As I step over each abyss

But we're both alone

Walking on the rails.

A world begins

The second you exhale

The dream of dancing partners

In a pause before the leap.

There you stand,

At ladder's end

I doubt the chasm 

What I've heard for years

Leaning into what lies ahead

I burn the ladder.

Perhaps we'll land together.

I did not lose my virginity; I tortured it slowly and dispassionately until it broke.

From first kiss to final gasp, it took seven years to wear it down, but in the end, my fall-back boyfriend ground the last shred of mystery from my pussy in England as I lay underwhelmed and supine on my dorm room bunk bed, thinking about another boy.

At 21, I knew intuitively that I had waited a long time by earthly standards to smash the mythic champagne bottle against the hull, so, I’ll admit, I expected a memorable, if not unprecedented, initiation into no holds barred carnality.

I pushed my vagina face first into fornication, broke all the rules of engagement a Seventh-day Adventist girl is supposed to abide by until her wedding day, and wound up annoyed because I had to get myself off in a chair stolen from a dumpster in London.

There was no blood, no nervousness, not even the promised, “It’ll hurt real bad the first time.” To my deep disappointment, there was only a mild sense of accomplishment similar to having remembered to pack your toothbrush.

After that I abandoned the artistry of a long and painful interrogation. The payoff did not match the investment.

Jump into the fog and make an effort to find me. You won't be able to see clearly with your bare eyes, but I trust that you know by now the most beautiful things in life are felt and not seen. Use your other senses to guide you. You can use the part of your soul you have ignored for so long as a portal to the realm I currently reside in. It is a foreign paradise where heartbreak has no place in a dictionary, and where a cure that is easily accessible to those who are terribly grief-stricken exists. Although I am certain you would miss the chaos dearly, I promise you will finally be able to rest. Before drifting through the cosmos, we should let it be known we mustn't be woken till the gentle night settles in; for I do not wish to wake up from this daydream unless it is to fall asleep and dream of it again.

Ecstasy takes a front seat

Innocence is lost

Reason tumbled out window

Tiny feet watched

'Til watching's done

Feet dance with the Sun

Caressing sands, hot

Easing Life's "Gordian knots"

The shortening of breath with legs shifting and rapidly anxious heartbeats seeping into the walls is deafening.

A middle-aged woman with greying hair crawls into the twin bed and pulls the blanket as quietly as she can manage.

“What happened?” a small voice yawns. The eyes of the five-year girl have widened and are searching in the darkness.

The older woman gets up and searches for something on the shelf.

“There’s nothing the matter, go back to sleep, I just need to stay here for a little bit.”

She is staring at the wall, her mind completely blank, her lungs are tightening, and she can’t keep her eyes off the door.

The young girl lies looking at her mother’s back and hands that she’s planted on the shelf. She wonders what her mother could possibly be running from as she wraps her Minnie Mouse blanket closer around her.

“Mom?”

The exhausted woman crawls back in and turns over, the little girl gently puts the small blanket over her body.

“Don’t worry, honey, just go back to bed.”

The daughter stares at the back of her head and listens to her mother’s labored breathing until she can’t remember falling asleep.

As the sun rises, the daughter gets up with a start and lets out a little yelp. Her mother is gone. Was that what people meant by dreaming?

The shortening of breath at night comes back. Her legs shift against each other and sometimes against or towards another. She continues to pull the blanket closer around her. She clutches her anxious heartbeat in desperate hope that it won’t stop.

The memory refuses to stop unfolding.