East side living is easy

We can just call it an art

As the roaches crawl on hard wood

Flickered lights and broken hearts

Bohemia we dreamed of you

When did your light betray?

An illusion of confusion

Left my life in disarray

Peter Pan lost Wendy

Now he’ll never be a man

Why can’t he just grow up

and face leaving Neverland?

Tinkerbell has been through hell

Done taking his commands

Cause Peter is no leader

Don’t believe, don’t clap your hands

“I’m an artist!” says the failure

To the rusted out old sink

So that her life seems more demure

She cares what people think

The struggle is, but just a part

Of a greater story told

She don’t believe it in her heart

But that’s the lie she bought and sold

Bohemia, we dreamed of you

But now we’ve lost our way

We realize with clearer eyes

That nothing gold can stay

Early June 1854

Hope glanced at her children as they sprinted past the living room.

Without greeting her, they rushed from sight and bounded up the stairs. A few minutes later, James entered the house as well.

“Hope?” he questioned upon noticing her distant gaze. She didn’t respond, just continued staring through him, the sight of her children running past playing and replaying over and over in her mind.

Suddenly, James appeared in front of her. He broke through the image, kneeling in front of her to look up at her face.

“Tell me what is going on inside your mind. Is it the children?”

“They don’t notice or regard me.” Her voice was void of feeling, just stating a fact in a dead tone. “They blame me. They blame us. But they can’t blame him anymore, since he is dead, so they blame it on me . . .” She started rambling, tears flooding and emotion finally bleeding through into her speech, “. . . it kills me knowing that I have lost my husband, I have lost my children as well, we are—”

“Hope, stop.” He grabbed her hands. “They will come around. They will work through all their hatred and sorrow, and then you’ll be a true family again.”

September 27, 1854

Thomas Crawford readjusted his grasp on the raft. The salty water drenched his clothes and burned on his lips. He focused his eyes, scanning to the right side of the raft, desperately searching for his younger friend.

Finally, the blonde mass of hair, matted to a strong face, met his eyes and he breathed a sigh of relief. The young man, by the name of Henry Price, caught his eye and smiled—resembling a grimace—at him.

They had been afloat for what had felt like days, yet Thomas knew it to be only a few hours. He wondered what happened to the Arctic and how many casualties were suffered.

A twinge of hatred rose in his soul for the cowards that rushed to save their own hides, which resulted in the loss of many who were much more vulnerable. It took great effort and pain for him and Henry to push away from the crowds around the lifeboats. After the captain’s first order for a raft to be constructed, he and Henry rushed to create a small raft of their own.

Both of them were used to the fear of lingering death, used to the assailing adrenaline that would follow the initial shock. All their adventures throughout the world had made them at peace with death.

It was this that helped them construct a raft in silence and peace, away from the hubbub of the rest of the cowards.

It was Henry’s doing to go around picking out women and children to save. Thomas did not mind, but it was this that had resulted in their raft being overthrown with many frightened souls. He attempted, and so did Henry, to save those who couldn’t hold on, as they both would dive in after those who lost their grip and started sinking.

Neither men were in spirits to continue hanging on, nor for diving in after those who would suddenly lose their hold. Yet, they continued at this rate, realizing that their only rescue would be a passing ship . . . if such a miracle would happen to occur in their case.

December 15, 1854

“Anna, could we discuss this, please?” William pleaded, rushing after her. The chill hit him, but he kept up his stride, ignoring the cold and that he forgot his jacket inside.

“I am not ready to marry and settle down,” she spat out, the moment he fell in step with her. “We aren’t going to discuss it; my answer is ‘no.’ I have this new adventure ahead of me, and I truly wish to visit my cousins at least once.”

“We can do it together! We can get married, and then set off to Australia. I can meet part of your family, and after our visit, we can return.”

“You are going to leave your practice hanging for who knows how long: a year? Two years? I don’t plan on visiting for a week and then returning.” Her tone was bitter as she desperately tried to cover up her uncertainty.

She truly wished to marry William but was unsettled by the suddenness of his proposal. Her cousin, a much older woman who had recently settled in Australia, pleaded for her to come, and visit. It would be a long journey, but she wanted to step onto different soil for a bit, before making the final decision of whether or not she should marry William.

“Anna, I love you! If I have to bid my other dreams farewell, I will do that, as long as I can be with you.” She halted, taking a steadying breath before facing him.

“William, I am leaving for Melbourne on the Guiding Star, and I’m not leaving with you. When I get back, I’ll give you my answer.” She forced a smile onto her lips, magically powering up enthusiasm from the deep chasm within.

March 12, 1855

Oliver threw down his copy of the newspaper, disregarding his name underneath the front-page headline. He knew what he wrote he remembered every single word and line of his report on ‘Bill the Butcher’s’ death and funeral.

Diana entered the room, placing the silver tray on the table. She smiled at the young man as he bustled toward her to take his seat.

“You are restless,” was her only comment as she handed him his cup of coffee.

“You are very observant, Aunt Di. You are correct.” He smiled weakly, trying to sort out his thoughts and inform her of what he considered best.

“Oliver, I have come to think that I was granted three sons in this life. Owen: though not of my blood, I raised him with every grain of love that a mother can feel. My son with Tyler, Chadwick, I wasn’t able to raise and see him grow into a young man. You—I have seen you grow from a young boy into a man, and you have become like a third son to me. It is because of that I have grown so attentive toward you, and because of that, I am aware that you have something to inform me of. Please,” she encouraged, “don’t hesitate to tell me.”

“I have reached greater heights than I thought possible for my age,” he fiddled with his fingers around the cup. “Having my book published—it is a dream come true. But I feel so uncertain and tumultuous of late. Owen is gone, Hope is broken, the twins are messed up, and . . . I just feel lost. I feel as if I am sailing without a set course.

“I am thinking,” he took a deep breath, “of breaking free from New York for a while.”

“Where do you want to go, Oliver?” Diana asked calmly, albeit nervously.

“I think I want to visit Texas . . . what used to be my father’s homestead, perhaps. And I was thinking, Aunt Di, that I want you to come with me.”

“Me?” She chuckled softly. “Where did this idea come from?”

“I want to be able to take care of you; I promised myself I would do that. Also, I think it would do both of us much good to break free from this city. Just think about it, Aunt Di. The Texas air will be very refreshing and different from what we are used to ."

May 1855

Dear Mrs. Farragut,

After many months, nay, an entire year, of mourning Randolph, I have finally come to the point where I could write to you, without crumbling into a heap of despair. Much has happened since Randolph’s burial.

Frannie, never having known any other father, has felt Randolph’s loss most acutely. I have mourned a husband before, and so has May mourned a father. Frannie has never known the loss of a father.

I write to inform you of a new hope for us, Mother Farragut. It is this new ‘hope’ that might also result in us growing apart, never to communicate again, for the only thing that connected us was Randolph, and he is with us no more.

Late December of last year, a certain gentleman, by the name of Thomas Crawford, arrived in our town. He is an adventurous man, but wealthy and with a good heart.

With him, he brought the son of his late friend. The young man is called Henry Price. It seems that these men were present at the collision of the Arctic and the Vesta– not just that, madam, but it was your husband whose ship happened to pass by their raft and who saved them and the others clinging on. Both men speak very warmly of your husband, I must say.

I write to inform you that May, though still young, has fallen in love and married Henry Price last month. Frannie and I are making plans to depart for England; though neither of us have any relations there, we have decided that it might offer us a new beginning. It will also allow for me to stay close to my eldest, since her husband and she are to head for England next month.

Farewell, Mother Farragut, and I pray blessings upon you.

Your former daughter, albeit in-law,

Roberta Hudson Farragut

Early June 1855

Dear Hope,

Darling, having pondered your situation and distress, as well as the twins’ rebellion in regarding you as their mother, I think I may have produced a solution.

If it would be possible for you and James to send them, I think it would do everybody good if they came to stay with me for the present time. At least for a year’s time or so.

I could use the company, and, at times, I feel completely alone. Of course, I am very much alone practically every day. I could use the liveliness of the two, and I think they would appreciate a change of scenery.

Your father is still out at sea, and I promise that the children will be of no disturbance to me. They are very welcome here, and I think the coast will do them well. At least consider the matter, before giving up on my suggestion.

Your Loving Mother Always,

Flower Farragut

October 31, 1855

The Guiding Star, having left New York’s harbor for Melbourne on the ninth of January of this year, has not been heard of since the Mercury’s sighting of it on the fifteenth of the month following.

With no recent news, or sightings, it is hereby declared that the ‘Guiding Star’ has perished with crew, cargo, and all her passengers.

William dropped the newspaper, dread setting in. For the past few months, he had been plowing through his days, hoping, praying, and waiting for news. He wished that Anna would appear in front of him again, laughingly informing him that she never left for Australia; but no news of her came, nor of the clipper she departed on. No news, until today.

Black on white, it stated that his darling Anna had disappeared with no trace. She was gone, presumed dead, but possibly still alive. Who knew?

All that he was certain of was that he couldn’t live without her; he couldn’t continue living like this if she never were to come back to him.

December 15, 1855

“Thank you, Samuel.” Flower smiled up at him, as he placed the letters in front of her. He smiled in response before quitting the room, off to find his sister.

Though Maria and Samuel’s opinion on their mother hadn’t improved much, both of them seemed to brighten up again, away from her presence.

Flower appreciated having them close. Both proved to be helpful when she needed something from them; it had turned into them taking care of her, instead of her taking care of them. More than that, she appreciated their youthful exuberance that brightened up the house.

She turned her attention to the first letter, slowly opening it up, her mind not yet prepared for the shock to follow.

Dearest Mother,

As you are aware, I have been very distressed since the loss of my light and love, Anna. I cannot continue like this. I am not going to inform you of my plans. I—I am merely informing you of my wish and plan to disappear as my beloved did.

Forevermore your son,

William

January 1856

James,

I am very much delighted to hear of Hope’s slow recovery to being the person she used to be. Though nobody seems to be aware of what has been acting as her inspiration for life as of late, I hope that this will last until she is able to live again.

The news from Aunt Flower certainly isn’t very hopeful . . . I truly hoped that the twins would improve under her care, but I fear that they might be past the point of return to being the children they once were.

I am very much intrigued to hear that Samuel has this passionate interest in music now. I remember that he and Maria enjoyed singing together as children. You wrote that Samuel has taken up the accordion – though I am not familiar with the instrument, I am very much looking forward to our future family visit where I will urge Samuel to play for me.

Upon your inquiry on how we are doing: Aunt Di and I have found Texas quite diverting.

As soon as winter comes to an end, we return to New York. Though the change in scenery was good for both of us, I know of and respect Aunt Di’s wish to be close to the city that she is to be attached to for the rest of her life.

Your brother,

Oliver Kincade

Early June 1856

“To think that John Brown and his company killed five men in such a brutal manner." Diana lamented.

The family was gathered in Flower’s home. Diana and Oliver had traveled from New York, and James and Hope from the Colorado area. The twins were delighted to see their grandmother and Oliver, even James, again, but had greeted their mother coolly.

It sank her hopes of gaining their trust and love again, but she chose to remain patient. Time would bring healing.

“I agree that they were rash and cruel, but they were standing for what they believed to be true,” Hope replied to her mother-in-law’s comment.

“What?” Samuel spoke, finally facing his mother. “Are you condoning the violent murder of five men, just because they were for slavery and the murderers were abolitionists?”

“Samuel, slavery has been a great evil that has plagued us for many years,” Hope began, but was interrupted by her son.

“Slavery has been with this world for centuries. Possibly, if it weren’t for that, we wouldn’t have gotten as far as we have.”

“Imagine the fate of so many men, if it weren’t for their possession of slaves to aid and help,” Maria suddenly chimed in, staunchly supporting her brother.

Silence fell over the room and all eyes turned to the twins who were openly rebelling against their mother’s opinion. She seemed flustered, but also furious.

“Let’s not forget who killed your father,” she shivered in anger.

“Father would still be here with us today, if...” Maria began, and her brother completed the thought: “... he had just kept his nose out of that whole slave and owner situation.”

“Samuel and Maria!” Hope rose from her seat, visibly rattled. Both her children rose as well, straightening themselves confidently.

“We stand for what we stand for. It is our right to choose what we believe in and what we would fight for.” Maria’s eyes glowed indignantly. “If those slaves knew their place and stayed in it, our father would never have run to get the story, and he would still be here today.”

“Maria,” Oliver ventured, “you two are still grieving, but hatred doesn’t help you. Both of you will end up losing everybody that cares for you; think carefully before you finalize your opinion on this matter. “What is now so firmly decided upon will still be my choice in the future.” Samuel’s arms wrapped protectively around his sister’s shoulders, before he continued, “We made our decision, and we will have consequences because of it. But so is life. We all must choose and pay for what we do. It is our fate, and we have chosen these over others.”

Written By: GLD

Love.

What a fucking brilliant scam

That robbed this girl of all that I am

The world took a boy and called him a man

Placed him in the palm of my hand

Poor thing, he couldn't quite understand

That love

Is a loyal thing that he ought to share

You see his father never taught him to care

A working man who's hardly there

So why should he dare

Break the cycle that's been spinning the Earth

Ever since before the day of his birth

After all, the cycle worked for them, so why not us?

He said, "It worked for them, so why not us?"

Because love

Is not the only reason to live

It's not the only thing we can give

Each other

I'm not my mother

You're not your father

Why should we bother

With love?

sallow cheeks and

hollow bones

her skin was made of darkness

and her heart was made of stone.

her clothing sewn from werewolf furs

hair dyed with demon blood.

on halloween

she was the hollow queen

her voice

as wispy as the flesh of ghosts

eyes glowing

like a full moon at midnight

she was the hollow queen

hallowed by the ghosts and fiends.

she was the hallow queen

created from our darkest dreams.

nightmares personified, come to life.

she walks the streets on halloween night

He looked at me beyond the obvious, and I shivered amidst

The deepness of his eyes, so piercing and midnight blue,

Their intensity was nothing anyone would ever miss,

And I knew beyond any doubt, a new reckoning anew.

I felt the haunting of my soul and my eyes stung with tears,

I was both afraid and enticed beyond any measure I’d known

As he moved toward me, his purpose much too evidently clear,

I stood where I was, unmoving, lest the root of his impetus be sown.

The line of his mouth hardened, his blue eyes deepened to black,

Mesmerized, unable to move, I watched him draw ever nearer,

I felt the chill of his breath as he sighed, poised on the precipice of attack,

And an enlightenment of his motive became abundantly clearer.

Here was no simple mortal known to mankind amidst the dark,

But a creature, so wonderfully formed betwixt both it and the light.

He leaned closer to me, his beautiful mouth reaching its mark,

And I fell into him, not resisting that which was to be my plight.

I felt the thrill of his touch, the chill of his mouth as he imbibed

From me the blood that ran richly and so magnificently red,

And I knew that from this point evermore our worlds would collide

Into an unknown, unchangeable moment I neither feared nor did dread.

He lifted his coal black gaze, looking deeply into dazed eyes of green,

I fell and leaned into him, pleading and begging for still more despite

So strong was the unforgiveable need for the unknown and what I had seen

As I longed for his feast upon me to prolong with no need of respite.

Wonderful creature of darkness and light, mark me forever more

With your chilled touch and your stealthy lightness of foot,

Make me yours through this night and the truth of your lore,

My mind screamed, my heart beat, as the dark, unbidden thought took root.

A grimace of a smile deliberately formed upon his handsome visage

As he stepped back and gave me a look of pure longing so vivid

My heart skipped a beat and felt the immensity of the privilege,

And then he quietly withdrew, and the need for him steadily lifted.

As he disappeared into the liquid ink of the midnight evening,

I looked about and slowly returned to myself, though amazed and in wonder

With thoughts anew at what I’d just seen despite knowing it was deceiving,

And my heart and mind split, and my complete being burst asunder.

And now in the stillness and dark of night, many years beyond that first time,

I feel the blue of his piercing eyes, the chill of his breath, the touch of his mouth,

And I long for he who invaded midnight while into my heart he did climb,

Creating a vortex of need within, as forever, my love for any other was doused.

Silken soft kisses

unfolding like earth flowers

blossoming to love.

* * * * * * *

He mounted the stairs. I imagine him, in this moment, calling out my uncle's name. It is said when he entered my uncle's bedroom, he exclaimed: "Oh, c'mon Bill!"

Later, he and my dad would strip the sheets of my uncle's bed. My dad told me later that there was blood on them.

Aneurysms aren't supposed to be genetic but I'll never know; the moment it hits I'll be dead. Maybe it's better to be alone in such moments.

I'm upstairs before the funeral; I am alone in the house. I eye the Advil on the bathroom counter. Headaches come before the final rupture.

He arrives at the house, and I hear him like in my imagination of the moments before death, coming up the stairs.

He asks me how old I am.

I imagine this moment in a different way: the snow trickling down out of the grey sky, sheets of oblivion. The winter my uncle died was beautiful. I could taste the snow as it fell. That was before I told him.

My answer was, of course, my real age.

There are moments that define enter seasons of my life. There is the creak of the stairs that had held my uncle before his arteries built to a crescendo, the drifts of snow almost blocking the driveway on our way to the house to identify his body.

One day, I will remember that age differently. I will have changed.

I will hear the creak on the stairs, and I will remember what it feels like to be innocent and alone.

I started drinking wine when I was seven years old.

My mom took me to a store in Portland to pick out a very specific dress for the occasion. That Sunday I stood side by side with my peers in our itchy new clothes lined up to marry Jesus.

Lots of things were said by the grownups and we repeated the words just as we were taught. We had a cracker and a sip of wine. And we were told we would be saved. For now- as long as we didn’t sin before next week.

And in the inevitable case that we did sin, well, we were given the opportunity to sit alone in a small dark box with a chubby man that you could smell but not see. We tell him the naughty things we had done and ask for his forgiveness. We recite more words. As long as we did that, we were allowed to have wine again that Sunday. It always made me cringe and feel not good enough, but hey, I should feel lucky that I have a chance to confess.

I confessed in the dark, I drank my wine in the light, and hoped I was good enough to be saved.

As I got older and refused confession I would sit in the pew as people shuffled past my knees to get in line for communion. With each hushed “excuse me” all I heard was “shame, shame”.

I always noticed my aunties took gulps of their saving grace, not sips, with slightly shaky hands. I would try to take a bigger gulp each week to seem more grown up like them. I would anxiously glance around the church for a nod of approval that never came.

Now I am an auntie and I gulp my wine in the shower on a week day afternoon, no longer as a child under the blessing of a sweaty old man in a robe looming over me.

I don’t look for approval in my wine any more, but perhaps sometimes I do still look for it to save me.

And Lord knows it does.

Title: Saving Grace

Genre: Non-Fiction, Micro-Memoir

Age range: 18-100

Word count: 355

Author name: Marie Gaze

This project is a good fit because it meets the modern need for short and sweet, yet does not lack depth. It is what is between the lines that speak volumes.

Hook: the opening sentence grabs the readers attention with the heaviness of alcoholism paired with the ease of being a child.

Synopsis: a middle-aged woman looking back on her experiences as a child growing up in the Catholic church and how she carries those traditions and memories with her now.

Target audience: Anyone that was raised religious.

Bio: Marie Gaze is a 31 year old woman living in south central Alaska. A wife, a mother, a pioneer of the cannabis industry, a recovering catholic, past at-risk-youth, and micro-memoir writer.

I love writing reflection pieces that incorporate overcoming dark and heavy life experiences with a touch of light-hearted humor. My collection of micro-memoirs are relatable and fun reads that leave a mark on the readers heart.

I was raised in Wasilla, Alaska and Castle Rock, Washington and currently reside in Wasilla with my husband and three children.

My love for growing all things brings me joy wether it is plants, food, children, myself, or my community.

Lost in the dark, tangled in silken threads

skeleton fingers of old wounds

leaving empty spaces between lunacy

and distorted visions of obsidian darkness.

Mourning in cobalt skies of midnight hours

forest becomes enemy of old torments,

stones knead blisters on quivering feet -

confusion of illusions in dress of doom.

Muted energy splinters along my trail

unraveling nerves in soupy congealed mist,

rough sands of time lingering in deep recesses.

cracked jars of pain hang breathless from limbs

Fist of night pummels in long reach of silence

eroding numbness fading into nothingness.

a crashing, crushing soliloquy absorbing

intensity between shadow and soul.

“I’m very happy. He keeps me safe.”

It was small things. Small, precious gestures.

Asking her about her day, her friends; taking an interest in her life.

Tight hugs, an arm around her waist– warm and strong.

.

.

.

“I’m very happy. He keeps me safe.”

She wasn’t very close with her friends after all, and they were only using her, like he said.

It was okay. And now she had more time to spend with him.

He loved her most.

He protected her, kept a check on her.

His hugs were a little tighter, but it was okay.

He loved her.

.

.

.

“I’m very happy. He keeps me safe.′

He did.

Even from herself– her mistakes, her failures.

The marks on her body didn’t mean anything, they were just a reminder to better herself.

For her own good.

(“I hate doing this to you, love.”)

For her own good.

(“I love you”)

He loved her.

And it wasn’t something a little makeup couldn’t hide.

.

.

.

Whispers echoed in the room. The room– completely bare– for the solitary figure huddled up in a corner.

Too wide, frantic eyes looked around wildly.

A desperate chant spilled forth from chapped lips–

“I’m happy.

He keeps me safe. I’m happ-”