I discovered myself at 6. Like an object I tripped over, I wasn't expecting it. I thought i already knew myself: Girl, Brown, Last born of three, My name and age and school, the colors I liked, the games I played...etc.

Despite that, I met myself at 6. On a swing. In a desolated playground as I waited on someone to come pick me up from school. I had watched my friends disappear in pairs and one by one as their parents came to fetch them. So here i swung on the swing after school, by myself, in the silence that took me by surprise. I was alone, yet I was not scared. There was no one and nothing to distract me from my soul, and I could hear it.

With this unknown but freeing feeling in me, I swung as I looked up at the pale grey sky, I found it beautiful. I sang a song that i made, with lyrics I wished I remembered and I was me; no age, no label.

My mother picked me up shortly, I put my hand into hers while in a trans. The following days I realized with so much vividity the colors I liked, the songs I enjoyed, the food that made my tummy hum :). I saw flashes of a dreamed and awaiting future (as i do now). I saw the ants no longer squashing them, I watched the butterflies without trying to trap them. I had realized in that moment that every single thing on earth had a purpose that only it could fulfill. Including me.

I learnt that I was unique, thus irreplaceable, thus important. And so was everyone and everything else.

There are at times, for me, when the day is 

ending and I have nothing left to give,

where I simply sit in the back yard, under 

the umbrella, and let the cool spring 

evening wind lift the sooty ashes off of my

face and shoulders

I do not know how they got there, well

I do, but I believe, that that is for another time,

when there is more time for a drink with an 

old or new friend, to get into that story about molten

emotions and burning desires that became too

incendiary for our own good

But if you were here with me

I don't know if I would be good company as

I have said my last words, spat my last emotions

and with burning fingers from your venom

wiped the warm emotions from my eyes

leaving rivers of lava along my face

Sitting in my back yard, with the cool April

wind blowing on my face, tempering the 

embers that were once the beating

muscle of my emotions, I sit and listen

to the quiet

     Frank sits in the bed that he has shared with his wife for forty-five years, leaning back comfortably against the cushioned headboard. He watches the young red-headed woman dancing seductively for him at the foot of the bed. He devours every inch of her with his hungry eyes, as his hands clutch the sheet beneath him in tortured anticipation.

     She has already removed the black satin dress that she had worn that evening. She is left in nothing but her lacy black underwear that draws attention to, but still conceals her most exciting parts. Her hips sway languidly to the rhythm of the slow jazz pouring from a stereo speaker, then slowly undulate forward to every third or fourth beat. He notices the soft tuft of red hair rubbing against the lace of her panties as her supple hips push the fabric back and forth.

     He feels an involuntary moan come on and then escape his lips. It makes her smile as she raises her hands to tussle her hair about and then lets go, sending a crimson flow cascading down the front of her shoulders to gently lay across the exposed skin of her bulging breasts. She leans herself forward, placing her hands on the bed while licking her lips and looking straight into his eyes. Her bra, which he wasn't even aware had been unclasped falls to the floor. Her breasts now swing freely side to side, with nipples taut as top hats pointing down and yet angling toward him at the same time. This vision causes some stirring in his shorts, but the banner has yet to be fully raised.

     She puts one hand ahead of the other, and then, from behind, her knee has come to join the party. He realizes that she is now slowly crawling toward him on all fours. She is a feline on the hunt for her prey, and the certainty that it is him she hunts for is enough inspiration for a bulge to quickly take shape below before sinking slowly back down. Dammit, he thinks, almost had it that time.

     She has seen what happened, and she gives him a sly pout, but continues her forward prowl nonetheless. Her red hair is now dangling from her shoulders partially obstructing his view of her swaying breasts. Somehow, not being able to see everything at once fills him with a fresh excitement, and the bulge appears again, but unfortunately, doesn't stay around much longer than before. He looks at her, embarrassed by his shortcoming. "I'm sorry," he whispers, "I'm not sure what's going on down there."

     "Don't worry," she whispers back, "I know how to fix it." Her pout has now turned back into a smile as she comes forward and slowly lowers her face into his lap. He can now smell the sweet scent of her hair. It is intoxicating. He looks up at the ceiling as he feels her rustling in his shorts. His member is suddenly exposed, and he feels the cool room temperature on it for a split second before it is plunged into a soft, warm wetness. Euphoric stars explode in his mind. He hears her giggle and he thinks, well that didn't take long.

     She comes back up, breathing heavily now. He knows that she is just as excited as he is. She pulls herself up straddling his lap, as he reaches down to grab her by the ass and pull her as close to him as he possibly can. She begins to wriggle back and forth, grinding his manhood into the sheets beneath them. This is almost more than he can stand. Something has to happen, and it has to happen now.

     Something does happen, but not what he had expected. Suddenly, from the speaker playing the slow jazz, comes the blaring cry of a trumpet. Except, it's not a trumpet. It's more like thunder. No, not thunder, it's someone snoring.

     Frank wakes up in the bed that he has shared with his wife for forty-five years. He looks around and, She's gone, is his first panicked thought. It takes him a few moments, but then he looks to his left, and he realizes that she is not gone. She is lying next to him in the same spot that she has slept for the last forty-five years. She has gained more weight than she would ever admit to, and there is now more grey in her hair than red, but it's her. His member, which had been highly inspired by the dream, creeps back into its hiding place. That's okay, he thinks with a smile, you know she'll dance for you again.            He turns to the left wrapping his arm around her, and then falls back to sleep with his face buried in her sweet smelling hair.

I am the mundanity

of a dammed creek

damned to

drip

slowly

and pool around

tree ankles.

Mossy rocks

stacked methodically

to frame a winding trail.

Fragile ferns.

Boulders protruding

like a snapped femur.

Calloused arbors

with curled

arthritic fingers.

I am spring green gravity

that

sinks

feet

into soft

heaving

mud.

A chipmunk

full cheeked

in a hollow log.

war teaches lessons

though seldom about winning

oft written in blood

we can not unlearn science

nor rebottle its genies

linked with hands held high

surrounding what’s important

for them, brave faces

sheltering our families

hoping to watch as they grow

(c) 2017 - dustygrein

Empty dreams trailed pathetically after an empty body, thoughts and whispers finding time to be relived over and over again as liquor was poured down his throat. Callen ignored the pain, focused on the warmth it brought as he choked on it - nothing was going to make him slip into that craved, forgetting coma as well as the Vodka - no matter how burned his lips were. It didn't matter that his tongue felt raw, like sandpaper, scraping against the dry expanse of the roof of his mouth, if only he would feel that beautiful emptiness once more.

He had grown accustomed to the ever-present smell of alcohol, as had his girlfriend. He let his head fall backwards into the wind, wet splashes of rain decorating his tired, adolescent face, thick permed black hair being swept away. Already the boy could smell the petrichor, the delicate scent that reminded him of Ana. The sky was grey, so still, which brought unwanted images of disappointed silver eyes into his mind.

A thought; More. I need more Vodka.

Then, nothing.

A few minutes later, another thought; Maybe she would be the only one sad to see me go.

His head ached with poems long forgotten. Fingers still wrapped tightly around the cold bottle of Smirnoff, they itched to find his typewriter and let out the inner turmoil that filled up his empty soul like air. He didn't breathe in oxygen, he inhaled feelings and emotions and words. Long conscientious streams of isolated thoughts so common, so pretentious that they followed what society had taught him. Inhaling was being kept a prisoner.

He didn't breathe out carbon dioxide, he exhaled pent up rage, wrists slit to the bone, broken dreams that spaced his body. He exhaled his care for the world, let them think what they do because they didn't know him. They didn't know how he exhaled cigarette smoke, thick and choking himself on the carbon monoxide. Exhaling was finding freedom, no matter how small, again.

His head spaced dizzily as the vodka fell from his trembling, long fingers, finding its way to the river below with a final splash. The waters looked like tempest storms, a darkness in its depths that reminded Callen of himself. Reminded him of a hurricane ready to let loose, but suppressed; for the world was not yet ready for its excellence.

The boy smiled delicately, head bent forward to stare at the void beneath him, wondering if that was what it would sound like the moment he found the courage to step from the edge of the bridge and... 

...fall

     I hold the hair between my thumb and index finger, stretching my arm as far away from my torso as my hours of yoga will allow. It gleams red in the sunlight from our bedroom window, a lustrous copper thread against the royal blue of the curtains we chose together. Just below it, my thousands of golden hairs swing across my naked breasts, a rich breastplate that defends me from the single repulsive red arrow shot by my rival. It has been some time since I had a rival -I suppose I should be grateful for that. The early days of our marriage were when he strayed most frequently. I would scream, he would apologize (or not), she would vanish, and things would be good for awhile. Until they weren't. Around and around we went.

     And now here we go again, the familiar sick drag of knowing that I'm not enough for him, will never be enough for him, rooting me into place in front of our extensive business wear closet. Zee's slightly-wrinkled grey button down hangs before me, and I can picture the redhead curling up into the shoulder, her single hair catching on the collar button and parting from her scalp with a slight pinch. I hope it hurt her, the bitch. Carelessly, I drop the thin strand of her DNA on the floor, wishing that she could be discarded just as easily. 

     I'll deal with Zee tonight. Until then, I have my own appointments to attend to. I snatch my custom pumps from the shoe shelf, the peacock feathers winking from the toes as I clasp my bra behind my back. Today of all days, I don't feel like seeing my clients. How is it, I wonder, that I am so good at counseling other couples through their marital problems when my own marriage has been falling apart for years? An even better question: why do I do it? We hardly need the money; Zee practically owns a goddamn airline. It's cost us enough time lost in arguing -everything from the prestige-based ad campaign (my idea, which he eventually lauded as "okay") to the lightening bolt logo (I thought it was stupid and childish. He kept it.). Of course, I know why I do it. I'm a marriage counselor for the affirmation, the rush of the grateful glances and prayerful praise. I, a millionaire ex-supermodel who most women would kill to be, am insecure. And as I apply my Pomegranate Power lipstick, I feel it.

     All day, I sit and half-listen to the yammering of my clients and offer fool-proof advice as I mull over my own blindness. I should have known he was cheating. He's taken to calling me "Sissy" to my face, which he knows I hate, and in front of other people, it's been "Her." Close enough to my actual name, but it's somehow worse. Plus, he's begun joking about our age difference again. He's never meant "Cougar" and "Golden Oldie" to be flattering. Names have power, and Zee knows that better than anyone. So now he's gone and found himself some twenty something redhead whore with daddy issues to stroke his grey-streaked beard.

     I'm drinking Nectar Moscato in long draughts when I hear Zee circling the drive that night. Garage door opening, I finish my third glass. Car door slamming, I pour another. He comes into the entryway whistling Led Zeppelin, I throw the empty bottle, and it shatters against the marble floor. His footsteps pause. I smile maliciously. 

     "Sissy?" he calls, and my husband steps into our kitchen, grey eyes concerned, grey beard perfectly arranged, red hair on his collar. 

     "Zee." I stare at him, face blank, carefully uncaring. "How long have we been together?"

      He gazes back at me for a full second, glances at the shattered wine bottle, the full glass in my hand, back at my face, eyes moving in a circle. Around and around we go. With an uncertain half smile, he says, "Eons." He's actually trying to joke his way out of this.

     I set my jaw. "Fine. Since you don't want to answer that one seriously, here's another one: in the many, many years we've been married, how many mistresses have you had?"

     Finally, I see what I'm looking for: anger. Deep in his eyes, a storm begins to brew. "How did you find out?"

     "Well would you listen to that! Cutting right to the chase are we? Maybe you've learned something after all!" I stride toward him, and he puts his hands up, palms out, as if he's going to push me. When I'm still an arm's length away, I stop, reach out, and pluck the new hair from his collar. I hold it aloft as I did with the first one this morning, and it hangs between us. An indictment, a trial, and a conviction rolled into a single copper strand.

     He sighs, "Sissy-"

     "STOP CALLING ME THAT! You know I hate that name!" I roar at him, pulling back my arm to strike.

     He catches my wrist easily and hisses into my face, "Fine. Hera, what do you want me to say? That I'm bored? That it's been decades since I've strayed? That I'm sick of playing the business man, and I want to have sons and daughters to fight in another great war? Because all of it is true. I'm sick of this life, I want the excitement and sacrifice and adoration of the old days, and if I can't have it, the least I can do is find a beautiful mortal to make me feel like a god again." 

      Static crackles between his beard and my hair, and for the first time in decades, I feel like the goddess I am as my golden strands draw his face down to mine. I lean forward and whisper against his mouth, "Zeus, my lord, my brother, my husband. If you want to begin the world anew, say the word. If you want to force them to bow before us once more, I will stand by your side. But if another woman catches your eye, I will personally transform her into a beast of burden. I will slay her, and you will find yourself chewing her sweet flesh for your evening meal." 

1. The suicide notes found in journals, on notebook paper, on stationary paper, on my cell phone, on my computer, in your inbox. Notes that turned into letters, notes that uttered nothing more than "I love you."

2. All the blades. The blades that have updated their hiding spots so often that I can no longer recall where they are. The blades that I know exactly where they are. The blades that have been surrendered. The blades that I will steal, “just in case."

3. The Kohl’s box stuffed under my bed that is full of hospital bracelets, dollar store journals, mindless scribbles, and that goddamn toothpaste. It is filled with memories that define the word ‘bittersweet,’ with an extra punch of bitter.

         - Three Things in my Bedroom that will Slowly Destroy Me

“Cause I remembered how much you loved to dance…”. I couldn’t help but to smile and turn up the volume. Bruno Mars’ silky voice filled the car as thoughts of Grandma filled my mind. I remembered her sitting on the front porch, drinking her “lemon-aide”. Even at sixteen I knew that it was more than lemons giving a twist to her daily beverage—

I scrambled up the three wooden steps that have always leaned to the starboard like an overloaded sailboat, taking out my ear-buds.

“Hi, Grandma.”

She’s not actually my grandmother. In fact, she’s not even family, but that hadn’t stopped her from taking me in after my parents had determined opiates were more fun than raising a kid. I was eight, almost nine, when they hit highway forgetting about the little boy they left sitting at the table eating frosted flakes with no milk. I ended up in a mismanaged foster system. There was no family on the island, and the ones far away were too wrapped up in their own lives to accept the challenge of raising an eight-year-old boy. Thank God Grandma was the hidden treasure in the foster family chain.

“Is that Bruno your listening to?” She asked, taking a sip of her drink, the ice cubes clinking together audibly.

“How do you know Bruno Mars’ music, Grandma? I thought you were more of a Wayne Newton fan.” I said, sitting down beside her.

“Don’t knock Wayne Newton, he was so handsome and pretty good crooner. But…”

I waited. A story was coming.

“I never kissed Wayne Newton.” She finished.

It was only the beginning,

“Grandma, you kissed Bruno Mars?” I said smirking.

She refilled her glass from a blue pitcher resting on the small white plastic table, “Yes I did. And he kissed me right back.”

I stared into her eyes, “Come on Grandma, Bruno Mars?”

She took a long gulp of her drink, wiping her lips with the back of her hand, “The same one you were just listening to.” She beamed, gazing out across the small front yard.

Smiling at her, I said, “Okay, you have to tell me about this one.”

“This one?” She replied sitting up straight, pushing her boney shoulders back, “Do I detect doubt.”

If you believed all the stories Delores Lynn Green, my grandmother, had weaved, you could only come to two conclusions: 1. She has lived a most incredible life, one that could scarcely fit into three lifetimes. 2. The capacity to uncloud the blurred line between truth and make-believe is beyond her capabilities. In other words, she has told many lies. Kissing Bruno Mars may be the biggest whopper yet! But I decided to humor her, after all, she is my grandma.

“No, no, not at all. Is this like the time you danced with Bill Clinton?” I couldn’t hide my grin.

Sitting back, “No, that was rather proper. And he didn’t kiss me. Now he did grab a little piece of my booty when the dance was over.”

“Grandma!”

“With Bruno,” she proceeded without equivocation, “it was quite informal. It was at the Walmart.”

“Walmart? Really, Grandma.”

“Well, I suppose I should say in the parking lot of the Walmart.” She took another sip from her glass. Unusually hot weather had arrived in Kaneohe, causing beads of perspiration to take shape on the surface of the glass.

“I had just bought a new microwave and was having a tough time putting it into the trunk of my car. When out of nowhere someone asked, ‘Do you need some help?’. I knew it was him right away. Those beautiful eyes and wavy hair.”

“Grandma, I don’t think Bruno Mars goes to a Walmart. Maybe it was somebody who looked like him.”

“Are you going to let me tell this or not?” Her snaps were seldom seen but always powerful.

“His Mama had died that summer, and he came home to say goodbye. Anyway, I said to him, ‘Bruno, that would be very nice of you.’ Why, you should have seen the look on his face when he realized that this little gray-haired woman knew who he was. He put the oven in the car with no problem at all, he is pretty song for a singer. We talked for about the next fifteen minutes. I asked him about his music, did he have any new songs coming? Of course, we talked about his mama, but just for a minute, I could see that it still hurt to think about her. We got to talking about food, don’t ask me how we got there, but we did. So, I gave him my recipe for key lime pie.”

“Key lime pie?” I asked her.

“Oh yes! Bruno loves key lime pie. And he ain’t afraid of the kitchen. Then Bruno reached over to shut the trunk lid. When he did, that beautiful face was just inches away from mine. So, I kissed him. Right on the mouth!” She laughed, picking up the pitcher.

“Grandma!” I said, shaking my head and laughing with her.

“And he kissed me right back.” A little more than a whisper, crowned with a dreamy smile.

I sat looking at the woman who had taken me into her home when no one else would. I loved her so much, even the wild tales she told.

“You still have doubts.” She said after a few minutes.

I shrugged my shoulders, but didn’t reply.

Grandma took my hand, “Kimo, oe pono mau manaoio, you must always believe—I will never lie to you and I will never leave you. Aloha wau ia ’oe.”

“I love you too, Grandma.”

Almost two years have passed since she made that promise to me. Blurred lines, I guess. Her stories of Bruno Mars, Bill Clinton, even one of how she helped Ron Darling learn to throw the splitter were little lies that made her who she was. But the big lie is the one that hurts today—I will never leave you.

I turned the car into the church parking lot. Only a few cars were there. Grandma didn’t have many friends.

“When I was your man. Do all the things I should have done…” I turned the radio off and got out of the car. Inside the church, they were still setting everything up. A large portrait of Grandma stood where the coffin would have been if she hadn’t been cremated. The flower arrangements I ordered sat on either side of her portrait adding a cheerful brightness to the somber scene. Someone had sent a large arrangement of beautiful hibiscus. The bright yellows and brilliant oranges made the solid white of the gardenias I ordered seem almost pale.

A card was tucked in the hibiscus. I was curious who had sent the flowers. I removed a beige card, blank on the outside, from the small white envelope. As I read the words tears fell down my cheek and a smile crossed my face—

“Best key-lime pie ever! Love, Bruno”