My mom used to work in hospitals and nursing homes. Long shifts. Heavy lifting. Clean-up in Room 3. Spilled-guts. Spilled-bowels. Spilled-bladder. Spilled-blood. Human-spill. Spill-spillage. She’d come home to house, nighttime-still. She’d come home to pass-out, lack of sleep. Stumble down stairs, wash away fluids. Wash away E. Coli. Wash away sweat. Wash away death-stench. Pass-out lack of sleep. Repeat, next day. Lift-up crying. Lift-up disease. Lift-up dying. Lift-up human-spillage. Repeat. Lift-up human-spillage. Repeat. The babies never had a chance. Twins. Fallopian-tube, burst. Platelet, internal-vein explosion. Ghost-bleeding. Phantom-bleeding. Insides-bleeding. Also known as hemorrhage. Also known as dying. Also known as 8 hours screaming/fainting/shaking pain. Also known as doctor-induced abort mission. Ride or die. Abort mission or sleep-eternal. No blood left. So I could hold two still-borns. One mass explosion. The other clump of tadpole-mess. Save the unborn. Send the living home. Follow the plan. Return home. Spare the rod, spoil the child. Kill the mother, spare the child. Or spoon-scrape cervix. Tissue-removal. Tissue-removal. And I wake every day thanking the doctor that left her blood-cup-half-full. Pray to false god of saving lives. Return me home. Return me home.

Ballpoint tears, my fountain pens

Quill dipped ’neath Horizon’s rim

Clouds of thought sail sunlight, dim

Crimson, east to west, I swim

Full moon flush with Sun’s embrace

Evening, scattered stars enlace

Heaven writ in double space

Endless waters fall from grace

Papyrus creased; pressed flowers age

Bound within worn leather’s cage

Silence sheered, each gilded page

Echoes; wisdom’s ancient sage

Worries drowned in well of ink

Weightless; sorrow’s anvil sinks

Heart of grey now blush with pink

To fall on grace with everything

“Anyone can reach the top!” A man shouted, from his starting point somewhere midway up the mountain. He grabbed giant outcroppings of rock that served as perfect handholds. Grunted as he hauled himself up the steep incline toward the distant summit. “We all have an equal chance!”

“What?” called another man, who’d found himself randomly at the bottom of the mountain, among dirt and stone shards. He faced a sheer cliff above him. “Did someone say something?”

“We all have a chance!” Grunted a woman a few kilometers above him. She was scaling the cliff, somehow, grabbing tiny cervices with the tips of her fingers, and leaving trails of blood between the cracks. “But you have to work ten times as hard as that guy way up there. Equal my ass!”

Not far away, a fortunate man was riding a lift past the daunting cliff face. He landed somewhere below the middleman, and immediately raced to catch up with him. “Wow, climbing is so much easier from here!” He launched up with the speed and agility of a mountain goat.

“Hey!” yelled the middleman. “That’s not fair. He got a free ride!” He picked up his pace, but was no match for his new competition.

The fortunate man outstripped him in no time, grabbed and yanked him off rocks, sending him tumbling down the mountain, screaming.

“Not enough room for all of us!” yelled the fortunate man. But he soon hit a dead overhang above him. So near the top, he could taste it. But, how, how did he get past this?

A woman hung by her fingers not far off, as she traversed the overhang hand-over hand. Would she make it? Or would she fall? Statistics were not in her favour.

Above her, past the overhang, people clambered for the very top, only big enough for one. “Anyone can make it,” they chorused as they climbed over each other. “If you can’t make it, you’re not working hard enough!” Some of them had come from the bottom. Some had been lifted partway, some had slogged the entire time. Others had always been here.

But no matter where they came from, one thing was certain. There wasn’t enough room for all of them. They threw each-other off the summit, to plummet and roll back down the mountain.

A woman grabbed the man standing at the tip, yanked him down and scrambled to take his place. “Yes!”

But a second later, someone grabbed her, and sent her rolling down the mountain, off the overhang, and into empty air. Her screams were drowned out by the chant from the crowd. “Anyone can make it. Equal opportunity. Equal chance.”

“We. Are. Equal!

The woman on the cliff-face far below, who’d stopped to help a boy who was struggling, called up to them.

“Equal my ass!”

At some point I discovered if I stretched

on the rim of the bathtub in front of the window,

I could see over the half--curtain and into the bathroom

of the symmetrical unit across the alcove. One night, sloshing

soggy, in the cooling bathtub of 31 Brewster Street,

I saw the light come on across the way. To my amazement, Angelique,

the twenty--something nanny for the noisy toddlers

of the next--door, yuppie couple, was undressing

for her bath, not twenty feet away.

This was a living body – all

sweat and blood and flesh – and I was standing

on the edge of the bathtub, peering over

the curtain at her – blond hair, unraveling over

pale shoulders, plump arms, breasts – round and pale,

her bottom -- round and pale, as she

bent to remove the brown wool tights. I stretched

on my toes, to see everything -- dripping

and naked from my bath. And then she stiffened,

jerked abruptly upright, and to my horror

her blue eyes came full frontal to return my stare,

they were not fierce, I remember

or embarrassed, or even surprised -- more ironic, almost struck

with disbelief, at which, I became aware of my own

naked form, framed clearly in the window

of my own bathroom – my scrawny arms, hairless chest, everything

was plainly visible to her, perched as I was

on the rim of the tub. I remember her eyebrows

lifted slightly, amused and knowing. She smiled and then

in the next moment, it was I -- plunged in mortification -- who

turned to cover myself.

‘‘Where is she?’’

The Royal advisors tried to hold her down. They chained their ruler to the floor.

The King begged for help from the Royal alchemists. They shook their heads. None of them were certain if there was a cure.

The Royal guards were asked to make sure that the current prisoner did not escape. They did as they were told and stood watch over the one placed in the jail.

‘‘Is there anything that can be done to help her?’’

The Royal advisers all felt sad for the King. His wife had been bitten by a strange looking beast when she had gone to relax by the lake, and no one knew how to cure her.

They had heard stories that if anyone got bitten by these human-like beastly creatures, there was nothing that could be given to heal them. The only sure way of saving them (and their loved ones from also getting infected) was putting an end to the person’s (who got bitten) life.

The King couldn’t bear to lose her. He had told his knights to not use their swords to harm their Queen. They were terrified of the King’s actions of holding on to the beastly form of his wife. But they obeyed and listened to their King.

All of them followed the order, except for one person in the castle. The young lad grabbed a small vial in his workshop and quickly made his way to the prison cell.

Once there, he pulled a blade from his coat pocket & cut his left palm. The prisoner moved toward him and lunged for his hand. The lad moved it away and opened the vial with his mouth. He tossed the vial into the creature’s open jaws.

A liquid slid down the creature’s throat. After a short while, the creature was back in its human form.

The lad smiled and gave a nod to the prisoner. She looked around and wondered what happened. What was she doing in a prison cell?

The King decided to go check on his wife. To his shock, he found that she was no longer in a beast form.

He opened the cell and hugged her. She was glad to see him. Whatever in the world had she done for her to be taken as prisoner? She hoped the King had answers to all her questions.

#Affligere #FallfromGraceChallenge

When the forbidden fruit's juice dripped from the mouths of Adam and Eve, humanity didn't simply fall.

It rose.

Beyond blissful ignorance, beyond what we thought we knew, what we didn't even know we didn't know.

Out of the grips of old gods and scheming prophets, out into the unknown void.

Out of toxic traditions and questionable judgement, out to break free from them all.

We began to understand. Think for ourselves.

Create. Destroy.

Learn. Forget.

Acend. Descend.

Transcend.

We have opened our eyes, but some chose to close them back up.

Out of fear. Hatred. Confusion. Disgust.

We all have a choice: the blessing and curse of knowledge, or peace of mind.

Taking the leap or shying away from the edge.

Have you eaten chosen to eat this fruit, or are you afraid of falling?

i watch from the window

as the crippled sun rises

from its shell

clearly as reluctant as i am

to bring its body up from the ashes

spreading its wings after the long night

letting it go as if it never existed

as if we had forgotten about it

all together.

I am the shadow that passes unseen in the dark, the breeze you first feel but brush off as lark.

Stealthy, this game I must play to survive. I can’t even tell if I’m barely alive.

Do you still know me? Can you hear me?Screaming behind glass. The air growing thin, needing oxygen fast.

But mere shadows go unnoticed. Will you ever see? See the girl you once knew has faded away to nothing?

Everyone once loved her, that vibrant young thing. But once her wounds became evident, they shunned her very being. Discarded like takeaway food from last night. Begging, crying, calling out for one bite.

Oh your scraps are all worthless, for they come from a place. A place so dark and so twisted, it all seems a waste.

Each black heart struggling to beat in those chests, is now given over to the dealer of death. He never long taries, for when it is time, he will come and proclaim that “what’s mine is fairly mine”.

So beware of your souls and whom you lend them to, for they may never return and one day you will only be left--with you.

The blood was fresh on her skin; fresh enough that it glistened in the light when she shifted her fingers; fresh enough that skin brushed skin with a thick, wet slip; fresh enough that its sharp, metallic tang drifted up into her nose.

The blood on her skin was fresh enough that she should have felt some guilt for what she had just done.

But the place in her heart where guilt should have festered like a wound was empty. The only emotion she seemed capable of feeling was a detached resignment, as if she had simply lost her job, rather than murdered her only son in cold blood.

“Vanessa?”

She looked up at the sound of her name, towards the throne and the figure atop it.

The Devil looked particularly devilish today, she noticed. A crown of jagged black spikes and wicked sparkling rubies perched between two twisted red horns that reached up for the glinting lanterns overhead. A black cape, torn artfully in places, draped over his broad shoulders and hung over the side of the chair to match the black armor that he wore beneath. Its edges were stained a curious garnet that a new addition to his hellish kingdom would automatically assume were blood, but Vanessa had resided within his realm long enough to know that it was just rust. Hell hadn’t seen war in several decades. She doubted the Devil even knew what blood looked like anymore.

And her bloody hands, she supposed, were just a pleasant reminder.

“Yes?” Vanessa replied. She crossed her arms over her chest, smearing the dark substance on her fingers along her sleeves as well. Audible gasps and murmurs rose from the watching court as she felt countless sets of eyes land on her bloodied digits and hurriedly take flight. It had been a while since they had beheld a sight so violent as well, Vanessa was sure.

She almost snorted at that. There had been a time where this entire throne room was coated in blood from top to bottom. There had been a time when the Devil had been a symbol of fear and terror, rather than an example of a perfect king. There had been a time when coming to hell was the ultimate sentence, and that time was not now.

“Why did you- Why would you do that?” The Devil looked almost hurt.

“Why did I do what?” Vanessa said.

“Oh, for gods sake,” the Devil said. “Your son, Vanessa. Why did you kill your son?”

“I’d forgotten I had a son,” Vanessa said, all false bravado and phony nonchalance. She glanced down at her hands, just for show, and pretended to be surprised when she noticed the red caught beneath her fingernails. “Oh dear.”

The Devil rubbed his forehead with a clawed black hand. “Oh dear indeed. Have you forgotten the principles of our kingdom? Have you forgotten your own morals?”

“Perhaps-”

The Devil cut her off, “We haven’t had problems in fifty years, Vanessa. We’ve been civilized. We’ve been good. Why now?”

Vanessa shrugged. “Why not now?”

“Because- because-” The Devil spluttered, “Because it’s illegal!”

“So what you’re saying is that I broke the law and I need to be trialled.”

“That is- oh my lord help me- that is exactly what I’m saying.”

“Fine. Then I plead guilty.”

It played out like a badly written soap opera: the disbelieving gasps from the crowd, the silence that followed like a swarm of unforgiving wasps, the betrayal etched into the Devil’s stone-sharp features. Vanessa almost laughed. Oh, if the angels could see the citizens of hell now: more perfect a kingdom than heaven itself.

“You plead guilty?”

“I do. I plead guilty to the murder of my son.”

The Devil hung his head, as if her admittance were his own. As if he bore all the guilt that she did not. As if he had more of conscience than she did.

“Then you know what that means,” he said finally, and when he lifted his hand to conjure the portal beneath her feet, something inside of Vanessa loosened like a knot coming free.

When someone falls from heaven, they wind up in hell. When someone falls from hell, no one ever sees them again.

And that was exactly what Vanessa needed. She needed to vanish, to disappear into the world, to never leave a trace behind. She needed to silence herself completely so that the truth of what she had done would end with her, so that the truth of who her son was would be buried alongside her.

The Oracle of Hell had not had a vision in over fifty years. And over time, as her silence continued, the kingdom had forgotten about who she once was. She’d almost forgotten about who she once was. She’d dared to try her hand at a family and a normal life, despite knowing the magic that ran rampant in her veins.

Then, the visions returned. The images had seared her mind at night, then remained with her in the day like thick puffs of smoke, hanging about. In the near future, her visions told her, the violence would return. The bloodshed would have its corpses. Hell would be as it once was. And all of this, her visions told her, would start with the baby boy she’d sung lullabies to.

Once upon a time, there was a bird with no name. He was the most talented musician you would ever hear play. Every night he would pull out his trumpet and play a tune that the heavens would dance to. He was so talented that other birds would come to know him as King. He would play everywhere for anyone and with anyone, it didn't matter. If King was playing, you knew it was amazing. And King was not only talented in music, but he had wisdom that rivaled Solomon. Birds everywhere would come to seek his intelligence. He met a robin one time that showed him a pretty smooth dance. King saw the dance and took it up a level. What a sight it was to see King dancing and putting the robin in awe. After that day, any time the robin would need a new move, he would come to see King. One time an eagle sought King's advice on how to compete for food. He had been famished for far too long, and he needed a new strategy. King thought a little and suggested that the eagle soar high, higher than anybody else, so he can see the whole field. And when he eyes his prey, he can dive before the prey even sees him. "Brilliant!" the eagle proclaimed, and he went back and reported it to the other eagles. Birds would come all over to see King. There was no bird he didn't welcome, and no place he wasn't welcomed to. Well, except one place. That place was known as the door. It was a mysterious swinging door that hardly any birds were allowed. 

One day, King ran into a new bird who called himself Jim. Jim claimed to be the only bird that was allowed into the mysterious door. "You must get to the other side of that door," Jim would tell King. "It is beyond your wildest imagination." At first, King didn't care to much about the door. He had many friends, a wonderful home, many successes, and could blow that trumpet like no other. So why would he need anything else? But Jim was persistent. "King, you are a nobody if you never get to the other side of the door. Is that what you want, to just be known as mediocre? You will be a real King once you get to the other side of the door." King paid him no mind until one day, King walked by the door. He thought he heard music coming from the other side of the door. It piqued his interest. "Say Jim, what is in there." "Everything you ever dreamed of." Jim knew he had King now. "How do I get in?" King asked. "First, you have to stop giving birds advice. They don't like when birds are cocky. You have to be humble." King was a little confused because he believed he was humble. "Oh no, you are far from humble, King. You think you know it all," Jim said in a sly voice. So now when birds would come to seek King's advice, he would glance at the door and then tell them "I don't know." It was hard for King to say at first because he did have an answer. But over time, it was an easy habit because he started to forget. Then slowly one by one, birds stopped coming for advice. Weeks later, Jim flew back around. "Jim!" King yelled to him. "I did what you said, can I go in now." "No, you are still not good enough," Jim said. "Then what do I do," King replied. "Well, they say you live too fancy. You should just give over your stuff." King thought about how he worked hard for what he had. He had even built it himself. Seeing his reluctance, Jim quickly said, "It is fine by me if you don't get to the other side of this door." King's imagination of what was inside had ballooned over the months. He often imagined such wondrous sights on the other side. So he ended up giving Jim everything he had, except his trumpet. "I think I will at least keep my music. We have been together for a long time." King said while Jim rolled his eyes. "Fine, I don't care. I will let you know what the decision is soon." King, now homeless, fixed himself a spot outside of the door thinking that any day now Jim will come back and tell him that he can come in. But Jim did not come. King spent many nights cold, hungry, and lonely just outside the door. Some nights, to keep his spirits, he would pull out his trumpet to play a tune. Jim would come around on some occasions to hear King play his sad tune. A few times Jim even asked King to teach him the songs. Having no one else to talk to, King would gladly teach Jim the songs until Jim said he had to go.

Over the next few months, Jim would come around and King would always ask if it was time for him to go in. But Jim would give the same answer and say that King wasn't good enough to get to the other side, yet. This saddened King, but he would still play his trumpet to pick himself up. Many days were lost for King as he sat on the corner, wondering when he can get in. One day, he noticed Jim welcoming other birds in the door. King decided that maybe Jim forgot that he was waiting, so he went to the door to meet Jim. "Hey Jim, what's going on?" Jim looked over to King and said "Hey buddy. We are just letting some friends in." Looking around, King noticed that many of Jim's new friends were King's old friends. He tried to greet them, but they felt King turned his back on them, so they ignored him. As the door squeaked back and forth, open and close, King received a peek at what was inside. To his surprise, everything looked very familiar. Mainly because it was identical to his belongings. "Is that mine?" King asked. Jim, acting offended, said "How dare you ask that. We have worked hard for what's on the inside of this door. And it's some of the best that you would ever see." King then heard a familiar tune. It was some of his music. "Is that my song?" Acting offended again, Jim got louder "You are just a liar King. What's beyond this door is all original and the best that anyone has ever heard." At that point, King was at a complete loss. But he decided to ask one more question. "Well, I did what you said. Can I come in as well?" Jim snapped back, "Come on King, stop begging. And look at yourself. You look and smell atrocious. It's like you have been living on these streets." King became angry and yelled, "Because you took everything I had!" "You see King, that's your problem. You are angry and loud, and you are just no good. You are not allowed to come to this side of the door because that's just who you are. And we are birds that are above that type of behavior." "That is not who I am!" King said with tears in his eyes, "you know who I am, or was." Jim smirked and slammed the door on King. Broken-hearted, King retreated into his corner. He pulled out his final possession and started playing.