Sun soaked sheets caught the smoke and whispers of the night before. Wrinkled her skin with sleep marks. The sheer curtains bounced warm light in after a night of pale moon glow. Two bodies tangled with bed clothes. The arch of a foot resting against toned leg muscles. Rough hands wrapped in tendrils of loose hair. Petite fingers curling around a waist. Humid breath mixing against mouths. And the mattress couldn’t help but to wonder how their slumbering eyes didn’t see what a waste it was to sleep with the other so near.

I found a list in my box of pills –

They’re designed to cure a number of ills –

Headaches, back pain, that type of thing

‘Instant’ pain relief they bring.

But the list said they might not do this –

It was a list of things that can go amiss;

Of symptoms, scary and severe

In black and white and very clear.

Rashes, cold sweats, short of breath

Almost everything but death.

Even headaches and back pain

Were on that list. I read again.

The very things they were meant to cure

Could be side effects, of this I’m sure.

A useless box, a useless pill

And a useless list to make you ill

It began with a pig, and it ended with a horse. City born, he knew nothing of pigs, nor of any other barnyard animals. Back in grade school his class had ridden the bus to a farm one day. The farm had smelled and felt dirty. The very ground was dirty with mud, shit and straw. The animals had been dirty, even the white wool of the sheep had been matted with filth, so that he no longer cared to count them at night. The animals had all stared back at him from black, avaricious eyes, especially the squinting pigs. The pigs with their blank, hard, and unfeeling gaze. It was the pigs’ eyes that had left him the most fearful impression.

It was only a dream, but a realistic dream, and a haunting one. In it he was not yet old enough to drive, yet the dream was a of a car crash. It was a dream of speed that would not brake, and of a wheel that would not steer. The dream was of an impact with another car, a driverless one. It was strange that the car meeting him head-on was driverless, but it was his dream after all, and a nightmarish one.

In this dream he awoke in the midst of the cold and the twisted metal of the car to hear the sound of a tire spinning smooth and easy upon its broken axle. The hiss of a cracked radiator freed the poison-sweet smell of antifreeze to drift heavily upon the cold air. Snow blanketed the ground beyond the car, and sifted inside it through shards of broken glass. He was trapped, and hurt inside the wreckage, and resigned to whatever the dream would bring next, being powerless to stop it. Cold crept in from every direction, save one. His one hand was cold, the other warm. That hand, the stretched out one, was strangely, comfortably warm. He tried to pull that hand in close, but it would not move. The trying was painful. It would be easier to sleep, easier even to die than it was to try. If he could sleep the warmth in the hand might spread, it might become warm all over while everything else was so cold. He closed his eyes for a moment... a moment only. Just for a short rest.

There was a press against the flesh of the warm hand, a gentle pressure, a check for resistance that sent a chill down his spine, shocking life into his fading eyes. Those eyes followed his shoulder down to his elbow They noticed that the elbow was twisted at an awkward angle. The eyes kept moving down, past the twisted elbow, following the forearm out the window and through the shattered glass. At the end of the arm was a pig standing perfectly still, holding his warm hand in its warm mouth, it gently suckling.

The pig looked at him through piggish eyes, thick, dull, slow, hungry eyes. It did not bite down. It did not chew yet... but it would. It surely would, or this could not be Hell. When would it chew was the question? But then, he suspected that he already knew the answer, didn’t he? It would bite down when the hand tried to pull away from the mouth, of course. The pig waited as he did, wondering how the drama would play out, wondering which animal was in control here. Tired, hurt, and afraid, he fell back into sleep. Let the pig have what it would. He was trapped. He could not stop it, and it never really hurt in a dream anyway, did it? There was only imagined pain to fear.

Of all things, it was a horse that saved him from the pig, but a horse that exposed new fears and dangers. A bay horse. A great red stallion with white blazes upon its chest and feet. It was a tall horse, its auburn coat blazing heat ’neath the summer’s sun. He rode upon the horse’s back, a boy again, and as wild a boy as was the horse whose back he rode upon. The stallion ran break-neck across the beach, its hooves thrashing sand in strange directions while barely denting the crystalized dust. The boy, his heels spurring the raging animal forward, sped the horse through the firmer, damp sand before splashing fearlessly into an unkown, and unlivable, watery-world. The horse raged through the water, kicking wildy at the approaching waves, flailing ironed hooves at the breakers and screaming whinnies at an unfeeling ocean, an ocean with eyes as black as the pig, and equally fearsome, an ocean that would swallow him up just the same.

But the horse reared and kicked and screamed at the waves, unafraid. In fact it beckoned Poseidon, daring him out from his depths with angry snorts that sent ropes of mucus to meet the wavy froths. The boy sat upon the bay horse’s back, a witness only, but feeling the animal’s strength and fearlessness. In the dream he squeezed his thighs tightly below the water, gripping hard to the animal’s sides as the waves crashed against him and the rearing stallion. He finally pulled back on the reins, pulling his beautiful friend from the water, unwilling to see the great horse ended in the breakers, and flopping dead upon the ocean’s laps like flotsam. The horse was brave enough, and willing, but the steed was no God to stop Poseidon or his waves. The war horse reluctantly gave in to the boy’s direction upon the reins, letting go its anger.

He was in control. Not the pig. Not the horse. Not the dreams. He could make the dream do what he wanted it to do, if he did not lose himself to panic. With this knowledge the dreams stopped coming. Their work done, the dreams ended. Their lessons were no longer needed here, so they slunk off in search of another dark room, and another child lying wide-eyed in the night.

I am you in my body

can’t you see?

sound the pensive trumpet

unchain prison of your mind

take a stand for humanity

I am you in my body

a single tear from a waxen candle

straightening the rhymes of imbalance

a reality nailing fools to trees

awakening human soul to acceptance

I am you in my body

rescuing sun in drowning sea

spreading wings of tolerance

smiting falsehoods strung

in twisted breaths of hate

I am you in my body

reinforce my head with glue

pile fairness in piles of bricks

acceptance warms barren echoes,

pitches out useless privilege

I am you in my body

lean closely to me to see

open heart in sweeping tides

let our voices be heard

eagles soar – we are the same.

In the dim light of the dying light bulb, the boy put his hands under the freezing cold water that flowed from the water faucet. It had a little too much power behind it, seeming to drill into his cut and bleeding hands. The pure water turned a bright pink and, as it washed his wounds, a darker crimson.

Leaning forward, he put his forehead against the cold glass of the mirror and sighed. Looking himself in the eye, he shuttered, scared of what he’d just done.

“Just one more time,” he struggled to say, his throat aching. He bent down and splashed the water on his face, the tears mingling with the now dirty water.

“Just one more time,” he repeated, choking as he did. Coughing, he put a hand over his mouth to silence it and came back with blood splattered on his palm.

More blood. That’s all I need. He thought. Something boiled up inside of him. Not hatred, anger, rebellion, but a feeling he couldn’t exactly place. Familiarity, that’s what it was. He was used to the beatings and maybe, just maybe, he was addicted to the pain. He could feel the bruises forming on his ribs and abdomen; he could feel the blood coursing down his face in a steady stream.

He looked back at himself in the mirror, startled at what he saw. A defeated boy who was a mere child, broken and abused by someone who called himself ‘father’. Broken and abused by all of society. Broken and abused by the universe. Broken and abused by himself.

The feeling of familiarity was gone and all that was left was the hollow feeling of emptiness. The feeling of internal pain, emotional pain, physical pain. He wanted to bang his head against the wall until he knocked himself out. He wanted to punch both his fists through the metal cabinet in the corner just so he could feel the rush of pain again. Just so he could cry.

He turned the water off and stepped back, grabbing the dirty white towel from its hook on the wall. He buried his face in the course fabric, hot tears scorching his face.

When he took the towel away from his face, he saw only little drops of blood escaping from the fresh wounds and the towel wasn’t so white anymore. He tossed it in the corner with the rest of the dirty rags and headed for the door.

He opened it slowly and quietly as to not arouse his father in his drunken stupor. He let it swing shut behind him but caught it before it slammed. He didn’t want his father to know where he was going. He didn’t even think his father would notice he was gone till he started looking for someone to beat.

The boy clenched his jaw and walked down the dirt road, bare feet kicking up rocks and dust as he went. He wanted to look back, he really did, but he told himself he couldn’t. If he looked back, he would want to go back. Go back to his drug –the pain he had learned to relish. He made himself look forward and kept his feet moving, pushing himself onward. He was done with that life. He was done with the only pleasure in his life being pain. He was done.

But his heart told him otherwise. His poor and damaged heart longed to be somewhere where he was needed, not where he belonged. Even if his only purpose was to serve as a human punching bag, his heart told him that’s where he belonged.

And then he looked back. He couldn’t keep himself from looking back. He’d lost all self-control. But all he saw was an empty dirt road meandering through a field of weeds and thorns.

It was too late, he told himself. Too late. He didn’t belong there anymore. He’d find somewhere else. He had to, wanted to, needed to find a safe haven otherwise he’d just go back to the broken down house in the middle of nowhere where all you could smell was human waste and beer. Where all you heard was shouting’s and obscenities.

He was never going to go back. Never. He was done mistaking pain for belonging. After all, that’s what worthless, useless people believe. And he wasn’t that. Not anymore.

Why do you still exist? And who keeps putting you on my doorstep, every 12 months or so?

The internet revolution happened. Clearly you missed it.

I suppose someone, somewhere is making money off you. And clearly someone, somewhere is wasting money on you.

A to Z, we’ve all been the sucker.

Should I dump you in the blue bin, or put you in the bathroom for long visits and the off chance we’ll run out of toilet paper? Ooh, I ’ll leave you here for the birds to build their nests.

It sits all around us

All around evrything

Space.

It holds the moon, the stars

but the mood and starts hold themselves.

The space is just there

like me

I am just here.

I will not be forvever though

unlike

s p a c e

A deadly waste of space

in our lives it has no place,

yet evolution had its say -

it appears to be here to stay.

It does not help digest

nor aid in our nightly rest;

it cannot help one respire

nor aid the glands that perspire.

Hearts still thrum when it's gone

open eyes still see the dawn

ears still hear spring's sweet song

yet your life may not be so long

if this pointless piece of tissue

bodily fluids begins to spew

great pain it can impart

and this life you may depart.

Why each newborn still has one

makes no sense, not a bit, None!

But, alas, the appendix shall stay

perhaps till your dying day.

“Do we have to go?” Whined twelve year old Christopher, approximately five minutes into their car ride, mimicking an imaginary five year old baby sister. It wasn't that Christopher didn't want to go upstate to see his beloved Auntie June.  She was probably his favorite person in the whole wide world, although he wasn't sure why. Christopher just didn't like boredom, and being annoying was always sure to cure.

“Yes we have to go.”  Commanded Christopher's father.  “It's Christmas for Christ's sake.  We always go to Auntie June's for Christmas.  And knock off that girly voice already. Man up.”

“Harry! Piped in Christopher's mother. “Do not use the Lord's name in vain in front of the boy! Especially on Christmas!  It wasn't an hour ago you shook Father O'Clancey's hand. How many hail Mary's would he give you now? Huh? How many Harry?”

As he gazed out the window at the windy road ahead and the bare imposing trees with nothing much else to do, Christopher continued to feel a certain melancholy and he decided to blame the dry pavement. The ride to Aunt June's was much more enjoyable when the precipitation cooperated.  And the dryness was not just outside the car, it was also inside of the 1965 Ford Fairlane station wagon. Literally. Christopher's father gave up on the Ford service department’s promises when they guaranteed the back seat drivers side door leak was fixed after the umpteenth time. Christopher never considered sitting on that side on dry days, and he was quite comfortable with that decision.  Without the precip, he knew he'd be responsible for creating the drama to stave off boredom and he was okay with that, but it was so much more fun to see how obnoxiously anxious his mother would get with snow and ice on the ground and condensation creeping into the car. Like last year.

“Harry I thought I told you to get the leak fixed once and for all.  You never follow through with anything. How would you feel if I didn't follow through with making you dinner every night!  The boy is literally gonna drown back there. Look at him. He looks like a prune.”

“Stop exaggerating Gladys.  Really. Look at him. The boy is fine.  You’re fine Christopher, right?” Christopher shook his head in a circle defiantly, noncommittally, hoping for more drama with a smile on his face, and laughter rising in his chest.

“HARRY! SLOW DOWN! YOU'RE GONNA GET US ALL KILLED!”

“Pipe down already Gladys.   Haven't I gotten us over to Fayetteville year after year in one piece?  You worry too much. Ya know they say worry ages you Gladys. You oughta think ’bout that next time you look in the mirror.”

“Are you saying I look old Harry?  Are ya? Look who's talking Mr. Comb-over Second Trimester.  I'll give you directions to Bob's Big ’N Tall shop cross town. Your gonna need to know how to get there soon.”

“Ouch Gladys.  Ouch.”

“HARRY I SAID SLOW DOWN OR I'M GONNA JUMP OUTA THE CAR.  I SWEAR!”

“Don't swear Gladys.  What would Father O'Clancey say?  And you in the back seat. Christopher James O'Hennesey. Pipe down. Stop laughing already. You know the 10 commandments.   Honor your mother and father.”

Christopher always laughed harder when his father would pull out the ten commandments card in the car, because he knew his father would never take the time to pull over on the side of the road and smack him in the back of the head as he would at the dinner table.  Christopher knew his limitations yet always flirted with the boundaries. In school too. For an odd reason, this year, in spite of his antics he was Mrs. Novak's teacher's pet. How could he know he was getting away with murder only because he looked very much like her first crush?  She would take that fact to her grave and truthfully she wasn't even fully cognizant of that notion herself, constantly overlooking Christopher's classic class clown buffoonery to the surprise of witnessing fellow students. The O'Hennesey’s on the other hand were absolutely thrilled at the reports coming home after years of negative behavioral reports and warnings.  Little did they know, the difference duly noted was only in the eye of the beholder, Mrs. Novak. Christopher was his same old high jinky self.

“Are we there yet?” Christopher said about five minutes later in the same Betty Boopish voice, drawn out in a snicker.  There were still three hours left before their ETA and he needed more drama with clear skies ahead.

“CHRISTOPHER!  Knock it off or I swear I'll pull the car over and give you what for!”

Christopher remained quiet for the rest of the ride, becoming somewhat comfortable in his dry boredom, just because he suddenly felt like giving into it, not because he really believed his father would pull the car over. Besides. The smack on the back of the head never hurt, he would just pretend it did to gin up tension.  Christmas’, Thanksgivings’, birthdays’, or even on days like Grampy's funeral, Christopher did and said what Christopher felt like doing and saying, but never at Auntie June's. Something about her was worth minding his p’s and q's.

When they pulled up to Aunt June's cottage in the backwoods, the three of them felt nostalgic about Christmas’ past without verbalizing their shared thoughts.  The crackling fireplace, the Nat King Cole carols, the stuffed turkey and pumpkin pie were all worth the anticipation. Aunt June didn't have much to offer, but she always offered up her best with a warm smile, great food and honey bear hugs.  Never having children of her own, her grand nephew Harry and his family meant everything to her, and she always worked hard for weeks before their visit on decorating, cooking and her menial hand crafted gifts from the heart. Aunt June heard them before she saw them, since the gravel drive to her home always alerted her to visitors.  

Jumping up from her rocker as best as her old bones would cooperate, she smoothed her grey bob and food stained apron before gleefully throwing the front door agape.  

“Welcome family, welcome and Merry Christmas!”  Genuine kisses on multiple cheeks were exchanged and the wafting aroma was everything anticipated and more.  It was their custom to open presents first before the meal since the birth of Christopher, and none of them found any reason to break with that tradition.  Christopher knew not to expect much, and had never been rude to Aunt June by showing any displeasure. He truly loved her, but occasionally he couldn't help himself from sarcastically commenting about her gifts to his parents on the ride home.  Like last year.

“Wouldn't you say I'm a tad old for a bib.”

“Christopher.  Knock it off. It's not a bib, it's a tie.”

“It looks like a bib to me and I'm never gonna wear it.”  

It really did look more like a bib than a tie.  Sarcasm is after all based on truth.

From the moment they would arrive, he was always treated as the king in her castle and in return he always complimented Aunt June, especially on her hand painted wrapping, truly in awe of her talent and work ethic. She would save paper bags from the grocery store and make homemade paint from flour and salt cooked down with various colorful plants from her garden like beets, kale and carrots. The package he held was small, yet the wrapping delicately depicted a nativity scene and his name was printed underneath in Old English lettering.  

“This is beautiful Aunt June.  Do I have to open it?” It was not just the beautiful wrapping he didn't want to disturb.  It was more about not wanting to reach deep for a compliment over another one of Aunt June's gifts he was never going to use.  Christopher was best at being Christopher, and even though he'd always been able to hold his tongue with Auntie June, his palms were getting a little moist at the thought of slipping and hurting her feelings.

“Go ahead open it son.  It's not much, but I made it with love.  I hope you will use it and think of me when you do.”  Said Aunt June with pride and the abundant love she felt for the young man who represented the closest she’d ever get to a being a grandmother.

Slowly, Christopher opened up the work of art, somewhat holding his breath wet handed, to declare after what seemed like five minutes, but was actually less than one, “But Auntie June, aren't I too young to use this, and if you don't mind me asking, when I’m old enough for sex, why would I want to think of you when I use a condom?”

“Christopher James O'Hennesey.   Apologize to your Aunt June right now,” hollered Gladys embarrassingly.  She couldn't tell him to go to his room like she would at home. He'd sleep that night where he'd always slept since his first Christmas, near the wood burning stove in the parlour they now occupied.   Only he hadn't slept in the heirloom cradle for years and years, but in a tattered sleeping bag that once belonged to Aunt June's dearly departed husband, the grandfather he never met.

“What did I say wrong?  Johnny Rosenberg showed me a picture of one last week.  He said men use them when they don't want their wives to get pregnant.   I'm not being a wise guy, really I'm not. I'm sorry Auntie June but if this is not a condom, what is this?”

“It's an egg cozy Christopher," wiping the laughter from her eyes. "You put it on your boiled egg to keep it warm.  Perhaps I should have used another color yarn other than tan, and you might not have jumped to that conclusion.  It's okay Christopher. No harm. Actually now that you mention it, it kinda does look like a condom. Hopefully not a reusable one!  And even if you are joking, honey I love your sense of humor. Reminds me of my dearly departed father, your Great Grampy Mick. He and I used to rag on each other all the time just for the fun of it.  Your old Meemaw never liked us goin at it, but I say no harm, no foul. We could all use more laughter in our lives, even at the expense of others, without malice of course.”

And with that the family of four doubled over in hysterics, relieving any tension left in the room, so much so that Christopher's father automatically lost his urge to walk across the room to smack him on the back of his head.

The ride home was again dry and surprisingly drama free, for Christopher was able to busy himself the whole drive home replaying in his mind an image of Johnny Rosenberg’s reaction after he'd pull out of his pocket on the schoolyard the most cherished useless gift yet from good ole Auntie June.

Q: The most useless letter in the English alphabet. Not only does it not have a unique, distinct sound, but it mandates the additional use of the letter "U" whenever it appears. Can you imagine if there was a number with this kind of arrogant uselessness? "Hi, I'm the number @! I have the exact same value as the number 8, but I'm always followed by a 3. The next time you count to one hundred, it might go something like this: 81, 82, @3, 84..."

Let's discuss phonetics - I submit that any word containing "qu" could easily and more understandably be written with "kw." It's kwite simple and kwikly understood.

I propose that the elimination of the letter Q would not only make the English language simpler, but would also free up real estate in the standard keyboard that could be used for valuable, oft-used symbols, such as the degree symbol. Both weather forecasters and recipe bloggers are dealing with an unnecessary frustration with their inability to quickly discuss temperatures in the written format. Let's help them out - down with Q!