A time where money was new and land was not claimed,

where people needed a voice, they needed to be saved.

No man would take part of these hard hillsides,

But a road came about when fear was set aside.

With picks and shovels they climbed their way through,

The lucky survived, but only a few.

The land was not destined to be safely sustained,

But Mexican’s have a way to make magic obtained.

After he helped create this new way of life,

He was voted to be the judge of local petty crime.

He entered the Army and became a General,

The Law was surrounding him so he became Federal.

I remember him saying that the government was corrupt,

So he created a system where the people could trust.

Gabriel was voted as the president of the Republican Party of the City,

He created organizations from his republican committee.

Land preservation teams and even orphanages are just two to name,

For the right reason he grew into fame.

But this is not what he wanted, in the shadows he preferred,

His reputation followed him by his actions and words.

He gave into his reputation and used it for good,

But he always stayed humble as the good man would.

He passed away on an October many years back,

And still his legacy is easy to track.

But you won’t find him in the history books though or even in the papers,

He was in it for the people, and children and labours.

There is still much to say about this great man,

Speaking as his grandchild who is a great fan.

But I recognize and acknowledge he did not do it alone,

His legacy wasn’t only in the streets but also in his home.

A woman who triumphed every lonely night,

As her husband created the means to their life.

Nine children were born from the woman born in May,

But one name Lucy sadly passed away.

Trini suffered many horrific days,

But she knew God was real and in her heart he stayed.

A true woman is what I sought her to be,

She has her own truly fierce legacy.

Strong, fearless and loyal to her family,

She came up with ways to sustain them financially.

Although Gabriel was known through his acts and his words,

People aren’t paid for the chatter they earned.

She came from a family who knew how to survive,

Selling sheets and blankets is where money derived.

She taught her kids to be strong and smart,

To listen to their minds instead of their hearts.

She passed on to Heaven early on a March day,

Because of that day my March’s remain gray.

My house lingers with her scent of flowers,

Sometimes I mourn her for hours and hours.

But before this poem becomes dark and depressing,

I’ll end it with saying that meeting them was a blessing.

The kettle slowly started to whistle lightly. The pressure in the room, much like the pressure in the kettle was reaching its boiling point. He just sat there, like a lump of mud taking up space. She ignored the noise and kept rambling. She didn’t really need other participants to the argument. She never listened anyway; she had already decided the issue before even sitting at the kitchen table anyway. The argument was simply a dog and pony show which had to end with the rest of us bending to her will and doing what she expected. Her husband had long since understood this and any and had all but abdicated any vestige of manhood he might have left. After all he had pissed away the family fortunes years ago. He was simply happy to have a roof over his head and food in his belly. Since she provided everything, he need only keep her happy. Her son was the problem. The older he got, the more he had this stupid idea that he had to make his own decisions, his own way in life.

The kettle kept getting louder to the point where it was drowning out her voice, which she had raised to a shout. Tired of fighting the inevitable, she interrupted her well-rehearsed speech and decided to get up from her side of the round table. Her husband had been peeling himself an apple, he was always eating, or off to the bar to talk with his likewise useless middle-aged wash-out friends. None of them were of any use whatsoever, she resented the lot of them. She had not taken the two steps required to reach the cooker, when she heard him scream. It wasn’t his usual surprised scream, there was some fear in it. Turning quickly, she saw him on his back, on the floor, a knife handle sticking out of his right chest. His hands clutching at his chest, blood was quickly pooling around the wound, his shirt slowly turning a deep burgundy colour. He tried to open his mouth to speak or scream, but it was useless. There was nothing to do, he was as good as gone.

The scene had distracted her from what was still going on. The kettle whistled louder by the second, as if threatening to explode. Her own screams of horror were drowned out by the whistling kettle. She had fallen to her knees next to her husband in utter disbelief, shaking him by the shoulder, her hands fluttering over his dying form. Normally you couldn’t move the heavy skillet which hung on the kitchen wall without even the neighbours hearing, but with the kettle whistling, there was no way she could have heard him collect it. It was only when she looked over to her son’s empty chair that she realized what was wrong, what had happened and who was responsible. She looked up just in time to see the skillet being razed and pushed her assailant back. This was her house after all.

Stunned by the resistance, however in no way deterred, the young man was satisfied when the implement connected to a shoulder before it dropped to the floor. He stepped forward kicking it out of the way, as she retreated, knocking her own chair between them as a barrier. She might slow him down, there’s no way this will be enough to save her skin. Stumbling to her feet she came eye to eye with her child, now a grown murderer. There was no love lost between them, there had not been for years. She considered him as useless as his father, just more expensive. But she recognised in his eyes something, a burning intent, a stubbornness she had only seen in the mirror. He couldn’t possibly have planned all this, he couldn’t possibly be as resolute as her, could he?

He kicked the chair aside as she began to run for the door. As soon as she was outside, she could scream and alert the neighbours. Truthfully, she could spin this to her advantage. He’d be arrested, and her useless husband was finally out of the picture. Her heart sank as her hands reached the door handle. It was locked. He’d planned this, there’s no way she was getting out. The realisation had not quite sunk in when he grabbed her hair. She was not done yet, she twisted, accepting the pain of torn hair, scratching his face to fend him off, aiming for the eyes.

She had always been good at scratching people’s eyes, even as a child. For good measure she took careful aim and placed a kick right to his midriff. He stumbled back, stumped by the resistance he had clearly not expected, and then threw his full weight on the person who bore him. They landed together on the tiled floor, facing each other. He was quicker, his hands wrapping themselves around her neck. The pressure began, she knew it wouldn’t be long now. He would finally have his release. Her fists hit his face; her hands pressed his chin. He was just too strong. The pressure increased, the light in her eyes slowly being snuffed out.

Her mind was brought back to the present, she snatched the knife out of her husband’s hands as he stuffed a piece of apple into his face while looking at her with a confused look. She lifted the kettle off the hob, opening the flute and stopping that infernal noise. Then she turned to her son.

“We just don’t like her for you and think it would be best if you tried to find someone else, someone much more suitable to you and your station. After all the right wife can make or break a man. Why don’t you have a think about it, and we can revisit this some other time, tomorrow say.”

She did not relinquish the knife until he was out of the kitchen. That was it, she’d made the decision that the boy had to go, it was time to cut all ties.

__________________________________________________________________________

Thank you for reading.

I wasn't always like this.

Broken, I mean.

I used to be good, and innocent.

He ruined that for me.

He ruined everything.

Before him, I was popular,

Some might even say I was loved.

Now, I'm just a failure.

A fake, a fraud.

I used to love taking runs as the sun rose

Feeling the sun redden my nose

Now,

Now, I'm just clinging to the high.

He destroyed me.

Like he will soon destroy you.

Note: (He) is supposed to stand for drugs if that makes any sense. This attempt at poetry horrifies me, but at least I tried right? Thanks for reading, any opinions are welcome! :)

I came back from Vietnam in the summer of 1970. My return wasn’t met with war protesters spitting on me, cursing my name, or calling me a baby killer. It was met with silence. The silence of a small town that continued operating as though the war in Southeast Asia never happened, and still wasn’t happening.

The men continued working their factory jobs, and selling insurance, and real estate. The women walked down the street, locking arms with their lovers or friends in tow. They laughed, smiled, flirted, and behaved the way I suppose I would have, had I not surrendered any chance of a normal life to the Army.

After a week at Motel 8 on the outskirts of town, I rented a small apartment from Reggie Anderson. The dingy old place was just above his old antique shop on Main, and right across the street from The Dollar, a dirty little hole in the wall bar, which I frequented often.

The booth in the far left corner of the bar quickly became my home. I’d sit there, jumpy and disoriented, struggling to decipher the Dollar from the Boom Boom joints in Saigon. Fear washed over me like a baptism at the sound of cars revving their engines outside or backfiring. The loud shrieks of laughter from the drunken patron saints of Annandale, and the sound of broken bottles hitting the dirty, cracked linoleum tiles, made my heart jump into my throat.

The guys laughed when they saw me, even the ones that I considered friends during my previous life. If no one was looking, a few of them nodded their heads, but afterwards they’d return to pretending that I was just a drunken fool, or that I didn’t exist at all.

Even Jenny Fitzgerald, who had loved me once, had turned into a sympathizer, and was somewhere in DC protesting the crimes against humanity being perpetrated by the military. My Dear John letter had arrived six months prior, detailing her position, and how she’d be a hypocrite and a contrarian if she were to share a bed with the monsters she was speaking out against.

Most nights, I’d stumble home around 3 or 4 in the morning, whenever Al Geary, the grizzled old owner of the Dollar, threw me out, and I’d sit on the old sofa that Randy had given me from the shop. Staring at the paint peeling off the wall, the voices of my dear departed brothers often paid me visits.

Whenever the dead cries of the 103rd echoed in my brain, an episode followed closely behind like a sadistic shadow, and transported me back to Nam. I’d crawl through the tiny apartment like it was the jungle floors of Quang Tri, or lean up against the side of my window with a commie rifle that I had stolen from a dying old man in a fishermen’s village. Fearing that the deserted Annandale streets were filled with Viet Cong gearing up for an ambush.

Eventually the voices faded and were replaced by graveyard silence. Then I’d sit on the floor, holding my head, cradling back and forth, and I’d cry. Scared to death of the inevitable follow-up visit.

Much of my time was spent cursing my life, my loneliness, and the rewiring of my brain that was so fundamental to being a soldier. You need to become a machine, soldier; they told us, a gook killing machine. Only they didn’t provide an instruction manual detailing the step by step on how to program the goddamn organ back to its human setting when we walked off the plane. I just thanked the pretty flight attendant, exited, and walked across the tarmac, feeling like a stranger. Not feeling like this was home, but that THIS was the foreign land thousands of miles away from what I knew, and what I understood.

After a couple of months, I realized the evenings drinking alone at the bar, with a follow-up session in my apartment, were further poisoning my already sick mind. So, I traded the black nights in the corner booth for walks around town. There was no destination, except, hopefully, some place outside my head.

I’d cross through town, passing the old gothic churches and the working-class homes of mill workers and railroaders. The chilly breeze on my face kept me in the now and away from the jungle heat, and the monsoon rains of Southeast Asia.

Something eventually guided me to an embankment above the Annandale switching yard, and that was the destination I chose. I watched the graveyard crew kicking cars and building freight that was headed westward with the rise of the early morning sun, as the smokestacks from the paper mill billowed through the evening sky.

I suppose the embankment was chosen because it reminded me of the person I was before the war. Just a kid watching his old man do what men did. Telling himself when he grew up, he wanted to be just like him. But then the damn war started.

My father and grandfather built freight trains their entire lives, and before Nam, had urged me to do the same. “Come work with me. Don’t enlist. You got nothing to prove, son. It ain’t your war, it ain’t your goddamn war. You're a fool, son. A goddamn fool.” My father had yelled the evening before I hopped the border to New York and went against his wishes.

I didn’t say a word as a barrage of insults were hurled at me like stones on that summer’s day. Letting him unleash all of those pent-up emotions that men from his generation rarely did, felt cathartic and therapeutic for me, despite how strange that sounds. I’m sure it hurt him, like it did myself, but I hoped it allowed him to breathe, at least. And I prayed that when I left, he sat with some of the weight off of his heart, and realized I was just doing what I did, because I loved him, and wanted to be like him.

Beginning in late October, when the cool fall weather was beginning to lose the battle against the northern winds, a young Vietnamese woman, who I’d later find out was named Giang, began accompanying me on the embankment. Another lost soul, I presumed, unable to sleep away the darkness, so deciding to embrace it instead.

She was always dressed in white, which contrasted beautifully with her long black hair that flowed like a flag at full mast behind her head. We didn’t speak in the beginning. Not a single word was passed between us. We smiled and waved. That was it. But it was perfect. I thought about her all day, anxiously hoping that she would be there every evening.

I know it sounds crazy, but I truly believed that I could love her, or maybe I already did. And a small part of me thought she felt the same, though I could come to no reasonable conclusion for feeling that way. Just something in my heart and my bones. An intuition, you could call it.

With time, further comfort was reached, leading to evenings of small talk occasionally breaking up the silence. It was nothing earth moving, in depth or articulate, but any fool who’s been trapped under love’s spell will tell you it doesn’t have to be.

There was love in my heart for this silent beauty, and its power had finally pushed the war to the dark corner booth of my mind. I could see a light at the end of the tunnel. A reason for being.

The first time Giang spoke to me and offered a small window from which I could see into her soul, she said, “My grandfather helped build the continental railroad.” Then turned to me, smiling, with teeth as white as the soft snow that coloured her black hair.

“Really? Is that why you come here?” I asked.

“Yes,” she answered. “He came to California in 1888. He laid down ties in the desert sun all day and put dynamite in the canyons. I remember a letter he wrote to my grandmother that my mother read to me and my sisters as a child. It said that there is gold in the hills, and the water sparkles like diamonds reflected in the sun. When she read those, I’d picture a paradise on earth where we would be safe.”

“Like diamonds reflected in the sun,” I answered. “That’s beautiful. Really beautiful.” And that was all that was said that evening.

As the days and weeks went on, we built upon that first small conversation, and the love I had felt as soon as she sat next to me on that first chance meeting blossomed into infatuation. I loved Giang, and soon I would tell her. There was just the problem of the war. And what I had done.

“I came here on a boat. I fled from Saigon with my two children.” Giang confessed in December. I remember because there were Christmas lights all around Hillside Road, just below the embankment.

She paused after ‘children’, and I felt a deep heartbreak for her, and a fear of asking what had happened, though I felt I should.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to them?”

“They got sick. They died on a tiny island off the coast of the South China Sea, waiting for a boat that never came.”

“I’m so sorry.” I said, and I reached for her hand, that was resting gently on the snow. She pulled it away..

“You’re a soldier, no?” she asked, and I just looked at her, nodding my head. I didn’t want to lie. She always looked me in the eye when we spoke, which led me to believe that she already knew. I think Giang had been around war long enough to tell a soldier from their eyes. “You came to help, no?”

“I don’t know anymore.”

“Did you help?” This time, when she looked at me, I saw something familiar. Something haunted, like the world’s worst case of Déjà vu.

“No.” I said honestly. I wished I had a better answer. But this was the truth, and something about her demanded honesty, like I had just drunk a gallon of truth serum.

“Why did you serve?”

“I don’t know that either. I guess I felt I had to. My father, uncle, grandfather, cousins, hell, everyone I knew served. I figured it was my time. I guess I thought freedom had a price.”

“And what about our freedom?” She asked. “Did we deserve freedom?” She was still staring at me. And I felt a chill run down my spine and continue to race into my bloodstream. The voices of my brothers were building inside my mind like the crescendo of a symphony. The heat was returning.

I shifted my eyes back to the rail yard, no longer able to hold her gaze “Yes. Yes, you did.”

“Then why did you slaughter us like pigs?” I was terrified at what I’d see, now that I was putting the pieces together, but she was controlling my eyes. Giang brushed her hair away from her forehead, revealing a small dark circle crusted with dry blood like a bullseye. Oh, no. Jesus, no. I thought. This can’t be real. Not now. Please, not now.

“We, we had orders. I was just following orders, Giang,” I screamed as snot ran down my nose and on to my lips. I knew her name, though she had never told me. At least, not on this steep embankment rising above the rail yard. My hand again reached for hers, and this time she didn’t move it. It was freezing. I rubbed the back, fingering the bones, trying to warm it up, but she was so cold. Not shivering, just so goddamn cold.

“So, there was no freedom, then?” Her eyes were now like stone. I’d known this woman.

“N-n-no.” I stuttered through stifled sobs, reliving the moments of burning hooches. Screaming families, rifle fire, and blood-soaked mud. I didn’t want to go back. “Don’t take me back”, I begged. “DON’T TAKE ME BACK”

I placed my hands over my eyes and despite my pleas and efforts; I was back in Quang Tri. In the village, marching through mud and straw. Scared children and women begging for mercy in a foreign language. We were supposed to be protecting them. They weren’t supposed to scream when we arrived. I asked Reynolds, “Why are they screaming? We’re helping them, aren’t we?” He laughed and patted me on the back. “Any one of these gooks could be VC, so do the math, my brother. If we leave them, and they are VC, we’re rat fucked. If we leave them and they’re not, well, then they’re just going to sell us out when they come along. Right? So, yeah, in a way, we are helping them. We’re letting them rest.”

A young boy walked up to him moments after. He was limping, and crying, and screaming in a primal rage that I’d never seen or heard before. Reynolds just laughed and shot him in the head. The boy dropped like he’d never existed. They began burning hooches with zippo lighters, as women and elders ran out. I didn’t want to do it. I wanted to leave. But I had orders. Orders, not freedom.

I held out as long as I could, praying to a God that I hadn’t believed in until that moment. But Reynolds, and Schwarmy, had a woman and her two children, on their knees as their home rose up in flames like an apocalyptic omen behind them. “You ain’t moving on without blood on your hands.” Reynolds said, as Schwarmy laughed.

The entire village was burning like Pompei. I could remember feeling my skin blistering but barely noticing the pain rising through my body because of the shock of what was happening.

This young woman. She was beautiful. There was fear in her eyes, but it was deeply hidden. I remember thinking how brave she was, and how in another time, in another life, far from the ravages of war, I could have loved her. I could have loved her children.

My pistol was unsteadily aimed at her as my hands shook from the fear and adrenaline. The heat was unbearable. Reynolds and Schwarmy were screaming at me about getting the hell out. “We need to Didi Mau, let’s go. Let’s go. Didi Mau, Didi Mau.”

For some twisted reason, a picture of this mother naked was still framed in my mind. I knew it was sick and perverted under the circumstances, but there was no replacing the image of me rubbing her soft skin, kissing her, and laughing about the war, and its foolishness. We were happy to be together. In another world. In another time. Another place.

“tên tôi là Giang,” she said. My name is Giang. A last-minute humanization of a people we were slaughtering like animals. I cried as I pulled the trigger. Dropping to my knees. The guys laughed and shot the children next. “I could have loved you.” I kept repeating, “I could have loved you.”

“I could have loved you, too.” Giang said, returning me to the embankment. I took my hands away from my eyes slowly. She was still there. Staring at me. But her eyes were soft and forgiving once again. The coldness had abandoned them.

“I-I-I’m sorry, Giang. I’m so sorry.” Tears blurred my vision. I looked at her through a gaze like she was standing behind a stained glass window. She was beautiful. The most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

“I wish I could go back.”

“Nothing would have changed.” She said, but this time she put her other hand on top of mine. “I’ll never leave your mind. But In time it will become less painful. You’ll need help, and you’ll need genuine souls to speak with and spill your heart like you’ve done for me, but you will survive. I forgive you”

Then, out of a small rosary bush next to Giang, her children appeared, bringing with them the sweet sound of children’s laughter. They sat on her lap, staring at the trains in the freight yard. Giang told them about their grandfather.

In Vietnamese she said, “Có vàng trên những ngọn đồi đó và nước lấp lánh như kim cương dưới ánh mặt trời”

There’s gold in those hills and the water sparkles like diamonds in the sun.

I reached in my pocket and pulled out the letter that I had taken from her hands as she lay breathless in Quang Tri.

Sought answers in

Bubbling tides, closed eyes quake

Baked in eighty-one degree frost

Winter never fazed. stalk greats on grapevines

Friends I’ve lost like sand and coarse grains, let them float- green

Acid holds passive fist, mass hatred hit

Critical: await my weakness!

Clip seconds, homework seeks

Calm keys clacking.

South Korean

Spring fluttered, fractured twigs,

Cherry blossoms burden driveways

Stars pave gas clotted skies, arteries forge

Steel beam fuel, magma cool and obsidian set

Concrete reads: 잃어버린 사랑

And so on… rain called: I answered.

Strange fade takes hazel eyesight

Mind bends daily.

Call mother when

homesickness ticks, slow streams

save in Lucifer’s lapsing temp-

O- days glow silver electric fences

Ten foot wall holds tenses, stress veils past purpose, goals

Mountains I can’t fall from, baseless geo-

Metrics, last wish young one birthdays

Compensated, gifts gone,

Grow up! Grow Up!

"There!" She held up an arm, pointing ahead to the neon sign down the street. 'Skeleton Head' it blinked, the neon arrow above the letters animating to point inwards.

Trevor, who wasn’t any taller than her in her four-inch-heeled boots, swayed closer to see around the head of the man walking in front of him.

They stopped at a crosswalk, and she bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, watching the cars whiz by. It was High Street, and there was no lack of movement. A man with a briefcase walked briskly by her as the walk symbol clicked on, and a couple passed in the opposite direction with a tiny, yapping dog, and three boys sauntered by holding slices of pizza. The sun was dropping in the sky, but the city was just beginning to wake up for the night.

Trevor trailed behind her, not for lack of interest, but just because he wasn't used to being downtown. Or anywhere that wasn't his tiny everyone-knows-everyone town.

At the entrance of Skeleton Head, she could read the smaller lettering on the neon sign: ’Bar and Nightclub.' A place like this wasn’t usually her scene, but she was willing to give it a go. She opened the door and stepped in, immediately welcomed by a wash of warm air and music. The opening act was already visible on stage straight ahead.

The bar stood between them and the concert, and they were stopped to show their tickets. As she was getting scanned in she noted that just to the left of the doorway was a booth, and a single man sat hunched over it, an array of books and a laptop in front of him. It reminded her of her college days, which weren't that long ago, but this was a strange place to set up to do homework.

Then they were whisked into the crowd, towards the stage, and everything was unfamiliar and sparkling.

"We should've brought glowsticks!" Trevor called over the music, and she looked around to see a man with glowsticks threaded through his dreadlocks, and someone else with arms ringed in glowing bracelets.

"If only we'd thought of it!" she replied with a laugh.

They went further into the crowd, but Trevor stopped towards the back, close to the bar where people were still milling about and ordering drinks. She stopped too, eyes glued to the enchanting scene ahead of them.

Three disco balls spun overhead, sending constellations of shimmering lights onto the walls, and lasers from overhead chased the dancers in the crowd. Candelabras fitted with LED candles hung from the ceiling, pulsing with an unearthly orange glow. Giant red velvet curtains were draped on either side of the stage, framing the DJ in the center, who vigorously mixed his music, holding up a hand and grinning at the crowd.

And the crowd. People were laughing and dancing and swaying and putting their arms up in the air, and everyone seemed so comfortable. Normally people scared her, but something about this space felt inviting.

Maybe it was size; it was so small. The other concerts she’d attended had been much larger venues, and had involved a lot of shoving and tight spaces and people bumping into her and breathing down her neck. This was nothing like that. It was crowded, definitely, but not cramped. Everyone had their own space to move, and the dancers ebbed and flowed, allowing people through and in and out effortlessly. Like it was choreographed.

The music vibrated through her body, an electronic beat that reminded her of the music she used to put on when she needed to cram in a study session before a big exam. She let herself bob her head, feeding off the energy of the crowd. She noted that Trevor was nodding with the music as well.

The DJ punched a fist into the air, then jabbed at his midi keyboard. "I love you guys!" he shouted into the mic, beaming into the crowd.

Everyone cheered, and there were shouts responding, "I love you!"

The musician continued, pointing. "You all! I love you!" His arm arched to encompass the people in the back, by the bar, and it almost looked like he was pointing directly at her.

"I love you!" she shouted back, her voice among a chorus of combined voices with others near the bar. She had no idea when the last time she'd ever told anyone she loved them was.

The music continued, pulsing in the floor, in the air, in her bones. Lasers flashed through the room, raised arms dipped up and down with the beat, the walls and the crowd were splashed with colors.

A guy in flame-shaped sunglasses politely asked if he could pass in front of her. "Of course!" she told him, and a girl with red and yellow hair followed behind.

"This next one's called 'Tired,' cause I need more sleep," the DJ said from the stage, then took a swig from his water bottle and adjusted his beanie.

A tall boy in front of her held up his cup. "SAME!" he hollered, and Trevor laughed, and the boy grinned at the two of them, and they smiled back at him.

She didn't ever dance, really, for anything. Not in front of other people, anyway. And she never went to clubs, either, not even in college. But this place was different. It felt right, it felt like the parties they showed in movies: neon and crazy and loud and gorgeous.

She put her hands above her head and let herself move.

Trevor waved an arm to the beat too, and they both cheered with the rest of the crowd when the DJ finished his set and thanked everyone again.

"Are you all ready for Lightning Myster?" he shouted before he left the stage. The roaring of applause and shouting filled her ears.

She looked to her side and smiled at Trevor, who shouted, “Yeah!” It was his favorite artist, had been ever since she met him four years ago in college. It was funny how some things never changed, some things were too familiar to change. Like their friendship.

She’d been surprised, at first, when he’d texted her. She hadn’t heard from him in at least two months, which wasn’t his fault, but hers too; she was terrible at keeping up with people. They hadn’t seen each other in person for two years, not since he’d transferred to a different college for the last year of his degree.

She’d missed him, some, and maybe she should have missed him more, but the truth was that she got on fine without him. Her other friends were easier to keep track of, and one of her friends in particular had gotten into a nasty argument with Trevor just before he decided to transfer, so there was a rift in what used to be the most perfect friend group in existence.

Even though no one would tell her the exact details of the falling out, she’d stayed friends with both sides, because neither had done anything to slight her. But deep down she also knew that, if she had to make a choice, she’d side with her other friends over Trevor.

Still, none of them were here, and now it was just the two of them. It hadn't been the two of them, alone, in ages. Probably since she told him that she didn’t want to date him. But they’d gotten over that, just as they’d gotten over everything, and now their friendship was easier, because at least that was out of the way.

“I’m going to get a drink.”

She nodded as Trevor stepped away, but it didn’t take long, as they were pretty much already standing at the bar.

He returned, and she said, “It looks like there’s room up there, do you want to try it?” She pointed ahead, because there was room. Plenty of it.

“Sure.”

They wormed through the throng of people, but didn't make it far before Trevor stopped again. “This should be far enough,” he said.

She smiled to hide her thread of disappointment, because they were barely encompassed by the crowd, and she wanted to finally know what it was like to be. She wanted to be so surrounded by music and dancing that she would have no choice at all but to become both of those things. To become one of these carefree people.

It didn’t take long before the lights went out. The disco balls and lasers and fake candles went dark, and a transparent screen was rolled out in front of the stage. A projector was lit, and Lightning Myster appeared, standing behind the screen so that he was just a shadow.

Everyone went wild.

pt 2: https://theprose.com/post/476715/skeleton-head-2

Kids these days are given the world; it is ablaze, ferocious and rampant. The legacies we hope to leave behind, etched away by our own willful ignorance, our haughty vaingloriousness; interminable, rapacious--grasping, we kowtow to the idols we've built,

to a life we've grown accustomed to. We so brazenly and so shamelessly have the audacity to hand our posterity a world that is on the verge of collaspe. Where is the urgency? Where is our compassion? Our fecklessness will be their cross to bear.

I am in a place where

it’s least expected

by most society;

but the vibe is

magically enticing

and I am gravitating

to stay a bit longer.

MidnightInk 8-8-2021

So first off, I am obviously not someone who knows a lot about you or your friend, nor do I know the specifics of your situation, so please, take everything I say with a grain of salt, as my advice will be very general.

Now, without further ado, my two cents on the matter: Honestly ask yourself, what is the argument over? Does this disagreement go against your moral beliefs? If so, be serious with your friend and explain why (note: moral beliefs are something that you feel very strongly about, and it can be very hard to have friends who share different or opposing moral values). If this is not a moral difference issue, is the argument something you could change your own views on? The reason I ask, no matter how much pondering you do, you can’t change someone who doesn’t want to change, so always start with yourself.

Also, it is good to keep in mind when disagreeing with a friend, listening and talking equally is extremely important. One person cannot expect the other to listen if they aren’t doing it themselves. Check yourself, are you listening to why your friend thinks you are being immature? Do you comprehend how they want you to ‘grow up’? Next, check your friend, (and be real with yourself) are they listening to you? Are they comprehending your side of the argument as much as you? Both participants need to listen to and comprehend the others words in order for both to come to a standing agreement. In the case of unwillingness to listen, reevaluate how important the friendship is, and decide how much time/energy you are willing to spend trying to (KINDLY) explain your point of view to your friend.

To sum all up, decide how important the friendship is, decide what you are willing to change and ask the same of your friend. Try to reach a compromise that solves the issue while preventing future ones by listening to one another. And do please remember, this is just my opinion.

I can still feel the wheel as it spun around and around. There’s a scene in “Uptown Girls”, where the woman is spinning around in circles on a carnival ride, the camera angled at her spaced-out face, clearly having lost all control of her life, of herself. That’s not what I was thinking about on interstate 91. No. I was thinking: I hope there aren’t children in the car behind me.

This particular SUV had the audacity to be driving the speed limit on the highway, and of course I immediately decided, like deciding to swat away a fly, to pass them. Going 90 mph, I tried to cut in front of them. However, the slick rain that night, shimmering under my tires, made me skid. It wasn’t a slow skid to the realization I had lost all control of my car. It was the thought: I have lost all control of my car.

The SUV remained oblivious, seemingly, as it stayed behind me. I realized turning the wheel was futile, so I pumped the brakes. This made me skid more. Now, my car was jerking to the right and then the left, and back again. I pressed the gas. This made my car do almost a half turn.

For some reason I still don’t understand, a grassy patch of pasture off the highway appeared. I’m talking, a hundred feet of it. Up until this point, there had only been guardrails surrounding me. I had been certain to crash into them and bounce off. But when this grassy patch appeared, I finally lost all control. I skidded off the highway. The SUV, still going about 65 mph, passed me in the blink of an eye.

Everything had stopped. It was done, an afterthought; after just a couple minutes of skidding, I was back in the present moment, physically unaltered by it. I looked behind me, in front of me, to the side of me. But before I did that, I stared straight ahead. Everything had mentally come to a hault, too. My life didn’t flash before my eyes. I was more worried a cop had seen me, hence the head swivel a few seconds later. But for those first few seconds, I realized I had lost all control of myself. I was out of control. More than that: this was who I was.

It took about three or four minutes, but I pulled back onto the highway. I had, incredibly, been on my way to see my therapist. I was late, but she would understand. She would have to, because I was about to hand over my driver’s license.

I still remember the moment my car stopped and I was left with my own thoughts. That was the worst part of the entire thing.

I reflect on that moment a great deal. That was in 2016. It’s funny, when we lose all control, how those moments stick to us. I wanted to get off the carnival ride.