From Timbuktu

To Nubia

Sally promised

Great prosperity

For all tribes

In each ancient

Advanced civilization

With folks that had

Such vast wealth

Then they unknowingly

Gave their power to Sally

Who handed them seashells

Promising them a much

Greater treasure/reward

Alas, that was all for nichts!

The villages had a loss

For quite a vast majority

Of their natural beauty,

Their precious minerals,

& stones, too, wasted away

For a meager price of seashells!

#Seashells...

Nov. 30, 2022.

Wōdnesdæg.

I cannot tell a soul about the drawing my sister had produced

Even though it sits upon the fridge after the others had been reduced

The parent's had declared it imagination

Though, they don't really have the information

In childish crayon it depicted

A lady with long brown hair with some pain afflicted

Her round head still carrying a red smile

Though it was far wider and might've been there a while

The black dots upon the upper half gazed at the viewer

But to me it feels mocking, as though innocents grew fewer

And her hair stretched past her shoulder

And I wish that I didn't know her

The lady depicted wore a vintage dress of green

Unlike anything others had seen

How I wish I could tear this picture here

But all I can do was stand there and leer

I should've foreseen something like this

For previously she told about a miss

Asking about why my girlfriend had visited in the dead of night

And now I am full of fright

So I got my shovel and flashlight

Heading out into the cold night to see if I was right

And once more dug up the disturbed dirt

Far away where no one could hear the hurt

When the dirt had gave way, what could I say

She was still unmoving, it had recently always been that way

Her eyes still gazed unblinking

And her lips still slit and could not be drinking

Once more I layered the dirt atop of her

And headed back home to head where I previously were

Even buried deep down, her dress was still bright green

Though it wore a stain unlike any had seen

His mind is clouded with random thoughts, but his hands kept on with the tasks given, by his side what seemed to be an unending pile of documents. Minimal of what is actually assigned to him, mainly of files just pushed onto him, even at the last minute right before the office hours end.

And he typed. And typed. And typed.

As if hypnotized to reach the end of the line.

Until everyone else had left already.

Yet he remained unfazed, as if the microcosm he lives in is within the span of the cluttered desk and tiny cubicle. By the time the clock hit five in the morning, he had finally printed the last set of paperwork, which he had placed on top of the team leader’s table.

Few stretches and he started moving again, the same random thoughts resurfacing, towards the cold stairway. In a few minutes, he reached the rooftop. By then his thoughts had molded into a pitch blank canvas, as if reminding him that he had finally reached the end.

At last, he reached the end.

By then, the city’s just starting to wake up, but standing by the ledge, he just started to close his eyes. Then it was the morning breeze embracing him like a cool blanket, and by the next moment that his eyes had opened, he has already laid down on the asphalt road, reminding him of the tough bed at his rented apartment, staring straight into the dimly lighted sky.

And upon seeing him, the company would start preparing to replace the lost spot, checking through the pool of hoping applicants. His colleagues would see the documents and go on with the meetings, presentations, and chit-chats. And a different face would then be facing his computer, seated on his swivel chair, and take-over his tasks.

Until another mind gets clouded with random thoughts, with the hands still on the keyboard, by the side a pile of documents. Mostly from others, a trifle, the actual work.

And they will type. And type. And type.

As if hypnotized to reach the end of the line.

It was one of those nights that the whole earth seemed to toss and turn with you. Thunder and lightning strikes in tandem with your thoughts, and rain makes rivers on your window that match the streams on your face. And you stare at the ceiling, trying to work up the courage to throw off the sweaty lump of sheets and run sobbing for your parents. You tell yourself that you can do it alone. You're eight years old. You no longer need your parents' reassurance. Your friends make fun of you for crying at night. "Boys who cry are babies" they say. They make fun of you for a lot of things. Once you talked about how your parents used to show you a blanket and tell you that you were brought down by a stork. And your friend George laughed at you and said that's a baby story. And you said "if you're so smart, then you tell me how babies are made." And he couldn't answer you. But he laughed with your other friend Billy later. You saw them laughing together. They were probably laughing at you and your story about storks. But you know that story is true, because your parents showed you the checkered red and white blanket that you came in. It even had your name sewn into it in gold thread.

Finally you can take it no longer. The shadows on your wall are too dark, the thunder outside is too loud, and you long for the safety of your parents' room where everything is quiet and warm. Thunder cannot reach you when you crawl into your mother's arms.

You are scared, because your parents' door is closed and the hallway is dark. Your parents always told you not to come in if the door was closed. But you're so scared. Surely they won't mind if you come in, just this once.

As you approach the door, there's a new sound mingled in with the thunder. It sounds almost like crying, but that can't be right. Mommy and Daddy don't cry because they're adults. You can't wait until you're an adult so you don't cry anymore. Maybe if you don't cry then George will stop calling you a baby.

You listen closer to the Not Crying sounds, and you get even more scared because you can hear the movement of sheets. Maybe Mommy and Daddy are having a nightmare. No, that's not right. Adults don't have nightmares. Adults don't get scared.

You really don't want to open the door. They told you not to open the door. But the shadow down the hall seems to be moving closer to you and you can't go back to your room because the shadow is blocking the way.

You open the door just as Mommy is yelling Daddy's name. And now you're really scared because Daddy is on top of Mommy and he's not wearing any pants. Mommy says you have to wear pants all the time. Even to sleep. But Mommy isn't wearing pants either. And she looks like she might be sick because she's moving weirdly up and down and her eyes are half closed.

"Mama?"

The weird crying sound stops and Mommy opens her eyes. Maybe she's not sick.

Daddy turns around and he looks mad.

"How many times do we have to tell you, Max? Don't come in when the door's closed. My God, you're so... ugh! Damn it!"

You start crying.

"B-but I had a nightmare..."

"Go back to your room. Now."

You can't understand why he's so mad. But you go outside and shut the door.

Mommy yells at Daddy.

"Come on, Charles, he's just a kid."

"It's fine. It's no big deal.

"I'll be right back. I've gotta talk to him."

"No, you don't. Tell him in the morning. Later, Mary, please? We can finish first."

"No, Charles. We have to tell him."

"How do you explain that to an eight year old? Yeah, sorry about that, kid, we lied about the storks? He's gonna get all weepy. He's a little crybaby."

You stick your fingers into your eyes to stop the tears. You're not a crybaby.

"I'll figure it out. Just go back to bed."

"You can tell him in the morning. Come here."

"No, Charles, I'll be right back."

"Come on."

Mommy makes a weird sound that sounds a little bit like a laugh.

"I said no, Charlie..."

"Aw, you called me Charlie..."

Mommy laughs again.

"You sly dog. Fine. I'll tell him in the morning."

"Good."

They start making that not-quite-crying sound again, and you stare at the shadow at the end of the hallway. It doesn't scare you anymore. You're more scared of Mommy and Daddy now. At least the shadow in your room doesn't lie. But Mommy and Daddy lied. About the stork. What else have they lied about? Did they lie about what happened to Rover? And what happened to Grandma? Did they lie about Santa? About Easter? Did they even lie about God?

The shadow won't lie to you. You can see him now, the man in the shadows. He's the one who told you that George and Billy were making fun of you. He warned you that your parents were liars. He promised he would tell you the truth. And he would never laugh at you. And you were scared of him, because you thought he was dangerous, but now you know he's the only safe one.

And he'll protect you. He'll protect you from them all.

And, most importantly, he'll never, ever, lie.

There’s a natural stigma around a skating rink that everyone has fun, even those that can’t skate or end up hurt for one reason or another. This stigma is mostly true.

There is also another stigma surrounding management to such establishments, that said people managing the building can be evil, vile individuals who prioritize money and self-interest far before any and all else. This stigma was 100 percent true. I worked a skating rink, and the night I quit was one of the worst nights of my life.

I wouldn’t work at a skating rink if I didn’t have to. Skating rinks are meant to be enjoyed and loved and I wanted those feelings kept intact. Management was going to be a slight issue, and I knew that early on when the general manager of the rink I had applied to told me that he hired me because I was ‘prettier‘ than the other girl trying for a position. I know much about red flags and inappropriate gestures, but the pay was good and so I continued.

Two weeks went by and my happy feelings of such a uniquely interesting place died down to a grave. Without warning I became the sole employee dedicated to clean up after others, this included trash out by the benches but also in the bathrooms as well. The music stopped alluring me, the practice of skating only reminded me of my labor and nothing more, and the manager that hired me almost always failed to show up and help out.

However, he was there the night I quit.

That night, February 3rd, I go to clock in and as I’m doing so, he, Scott, comes over to me and tells me that ‘someone’ has either stolen or done something to the First Aid Kit and that he can’t find it. Knowing that we have two complete First Aid Kits on the premises at all times, I go to the drawer I know that we keep the second. It is also gone. I had been out of work for a week due to vacation with my family and had no idea where it could be. Scott and I called other employees trying to make sure we had something readily available for guests, but nothing. No one had any idea where they could of gone, nor who would even move them around.

We looked all over, no kits. I panicked. We needed those kits to open, not just because it was most probably the law but because people fall and get hurt all the time out on the rink and need some form of assistance that First Aid Kits could offer. As I kept searching, Scott said:

“Forget it, it’s about time to open. I’ll look later or I can find someone that has one and have them bring it down for us.”

I believed him and began readying the register. The people came in quick that day.

That night we were swamped. The place was busier than it had ever been since I had started working, for once they had me up front and it was a continuous drag getting people into the building. Halfway through the scheduled time for the night skate event, they switched me and had me, you guessed it, clean up something out by the rink. Only, they didn’t tell me what it was I was supposed to be cleaning up.

See, when certain situations that need cleaned up aren’t due to injury, they tell me something needs cleaned up. If something needed to be cleaned up due to an injury, they’d let me know. It had happened twice since I began working, and they had let me know both times beforehand what exactly was going on.

This time was different.

I get out there and sprawled out on the rink is a girl that had fallen on her face while skating and had more than likely broken her nose, a decent sized trail of blood on the rink following her nostrils.

I had no idea this was the situation because they did not tell me. No other employee wanted anything to do with her support, and she bled anyway. And then I remembered:

Did we even have a First Aid Kit available?

I ran up to the front and called to Scott. Brittany, the other manager, answered.

“Scott went home!” She told me over the noise. “What do you need?”

“There’s a girl that’s got a really bad nosebleed out on the rink, do you know if we have a First Aid Kit or rags or something to help clean up?”

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” she said, “Scott told me he went looking but couldn’t find any. We don’t have any.”

I turned mad and impatient rather fast.

“How am I supposed to clean up her blood then?”

“Get paper towels from the bathroom and clean it up,” she said. “And get it done fast, we can’t have that out on the rink.”

“The girl looked hurt beyond just her nose bleed, do we have anything else?”

“No. I just told you no. Go clean up the blood. Christ.”

I had no choice. I had to do what I was told. I got the paper towel and ran my way over. The girl had suffered a injury to her arm but was otherwise okay, thank goodness. Scott got lucky.

The blood came up quick and I was able to ease the situation by giving the poor girl a paper towel herself as a way of helping with her nose bleed.

When she got up, I saw her face. She was crying. She felt embarrassed and had been left out on the floor in a position she could not get out of with little help from any members of staff, including me. She probably hated me, she probably wanted to go home, and I know she did because immediately after I helped her out, she left. She had come in alone.

That face. You can’t make up a face like that.

“You don’t care about the well-being of these people,” I told Brittany after the girl left. “I quit. Fuck you and fuck Scott. I can’t take this anymore. And get those fucking First Aid Kits in. I hope you have fun cleaning up blood the next time it needs done.”

That face. Those tears. And I still have never been back to that rink.