Zelda had revisited The Prose & Wine café many times – well, eleven times to be exact – over the last four months. The motivation each time she visited was solely the opportunity to hear him read just one more time. She could not remember ever hearing lovelier recitations of any pieces of classical work. She was confident that his voice, laced with a lilting and beautiful English accent, was a gift from the Gods, derived from ancient times. She did not know his real name, because everyone who came to hear the recitations knew him only as The Eloquent Englishman.

She often wondered if anyone on the face of the earth could read Shakespeare, Chaucer, Byron, Keats, or Milton with such beauty and stirring emotion. So enthralled was she by his rendering of any piece of prose, she knew he could have read a children’s book, and she would have been enraptured by the melodic timbre of his voice. Of course, it did help just a wee bit that he was also quite appealing in his appearance. In fact, it helped a great deal and added immensely to his overall allure.

Zelda herself wanted to be a writer. Her innate desire was to write with passion, and she wanted whatever she wrote to be so enchanting that someone would want to read it repeatedly. Moreover, she desired to write something that he would want to read aloud in cozy, dimly lit cafés like The Prose & Wine. Thus, she justified her repeated appearances at the café to hear him read by telling herself she was receiving the necessary inspiration to do just that. However, truth be told, she had fallen, and she had fallen head over heels for a man who read from the Classics quite hauntingly and beautifully.

This evening, she had been tempted to stay home and not visit The Prose & Wine for the twelfth time. She was beginning to feel a bit conspicuous about frequenting the café when he was to be the guest reader. Moreover, she wondered as to whether he had grown suspicious of her true motive. She thought it entirely possible that he could see right through her. However, after a lengthy debate with herself all afternoon, she had ended it by chiding herself for being silly and presumptuous. He surely did not even know she existed, less that she had been to each one of his readings at The Prose & Wine. She was certain her fears were ill based and inconsequential, and so, she had decided to come to the café this evening after all. It would make her very happy to do so, and he would never notice her, of this, she was sure. Moreover and much to her dismay, it would not be long before he would move on from the city of New Orleans, and she would never see him or hear him read again.

This lovely, chilly January evening, he would be reading excerpts from Sir Walter Scott’s Lady of the Lake, and Zelda was so excited she could scarce stand it. Sitting alone with a glass of French Merlot on her tiny table, she sipped her wine and looked out the window as snowflakes fell in the soft glow of a street lamp. She sat at her usual table, impatiently twirling her foot as it hung draped across a slender leg. Only about sixteen other people, mostly couples, were attending this evening. Perfect, she thought. She secretly longed to be the only one in the café so that she could enjoy the evening with him solo, but she knew that was impossible. Picking up her wine glass, she took a long swallow of the burgundy Merlot, hoping it would help to quell her impatience and anticipation as she waited.

The lights in the tiny café grew dimmer with the exception of a single light focused on the center of the makeshift stage. Zelda immediately placed her wine glass back on the table and perched straighter on the edge of her seat as she waited. Before long, he walked out from the back of the establishment and took a seat in the lone mahogany Mission Style chair. With a casual nod, he greeted his small audience.

“Good evening, my friends. I should like the opportunity on this beautiful winter evening to warm our minds with some beautiful words written by Sir Walter Scott. The book from which I will be reading is Lady of the Lake, first published in 1810, and the excerpt is from the Canto Fourth.”

He opened the small book in his hands and moments later, the smoothness of his velvet-lined voice soon drifted across the expanse of the small room:

“The rose is fairest when ’t is budding new,

And hope is brightest when it downs from fears;

The rose is sweetest washed with morning dew

And love is loveliest when embalmed in tears.”

Entranced, Zelda listened intently to the words wrap fluidly around his eloquent tongue and spill forth into the stillness of the dimly lit room. Despite the silliness of it, all her mind could seem to think upon was the ‘swooning’ that was often detailed in Romance novels she had read when she was younger. She was certain at this moment in time that she might swoon and faint fast away upon the floor of The Prose & Wine, so overcome was she by his lovely recitation of Sir Walter Scott’s prose. Fleeting thoughts of him bent over her lifeless body while attempting to resuscitate her lingered pleasantly in the back of her mind until she forced herself to focus once again on the beautiful words and timbre of his voice as he continued to read.

Thus, the night ensued with readings from various excerpts of the famous poem. Zelda was smitten and did not once stir during the entire time. So moved was she by the lovely poetry that she occasionally lifted a finger to wipe at a stray tear that fell upon her cheek. Ah, but she could live life in such a way, listening to such beautiful recitations by such a one as he.

Once the recitations had ended, the waiter made the rounds, replenishing everyone’s drinks. As the waiter poured a new glass of Merlot for Zelda and then stepped away, she gasped for he was standing there, behind the waiter and directly in front of her small table.

“Good evening,” he said with a brilliant smile and voice of velvet that made Zelda’s breath catch in her throat. “I hope you enjoyed the reading.”

Zelda was unsure how she did so and from where she found her voice, but she returned his smile and managed to answer him without stammering like a timid child.

“Yes, I thoroughly enjoyed it. Sir Walter Scott’s writings are so beautiful.” As are you, she thought.

“Excellent. I am so pleased you liked it.” He looked about the room for a minute before his gaze found hers again. As if unsure what to say, he cleared his throat and said, “I’ve noticed that you’ve managed to attend all my readings. I hope that means you have enjoyed them. ”

Zelda felt a blush creep across her cheeks at his words. He had noticed her uninterrupted attendance at his recitations after all. Well, she could only hope that was a good thing. “Yes,” she said. “I have enjoyed each one of them very much, but I think tonight was my favorite.”

For mere moments, the two stared at one another, seemingly frozen in time. Blue eyes met green ones, and in the skip of a heartbeat, connected. Zelda felt a small shiver run down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold weather outside.

“May I join you?” he gestured to the empty chair at her table.

“Oh, yes, most certainly! Please forgive my lack of manners,” she said as she quickly moved her wine glass and the copy of Lady of the Lake she had brought with her so that he could take a seat. He motioned to the waiter so that he could order a drink. Zelda watched him from beneath her lashes and wondered if she was in a dream. If so, it was a wonderful dream and she hoped never to awaken.

“I’ll have whatever she’s having,” he told the waiter, motioning to Zelda’s glass of Merlot.

Zelda was suddenly very self-conscious as the waiter brought her companion’s wine. Her slim, woolen skirt seemed shorter and tighter by the minute, and the burgundy turtleneck she had worn seemed to bind her chest tightly, preventing an adequate flow of air. Nervously, she tugged at the hem of her skirt and then fidgeted with the stem of the wine glass, glancing up at him to ensure he was, in fact, still there. She refrained from the temptation to pinch herself just to be sure she was awake.

“You like Merlot then?” she asked, and then mentally kicked herself. Why of course he liked Merlot. He had ordered it, had he not? Stupid, silly question and stupid, silly girl! she chided herself.

“Yes, I do,” he smiled, and a big dimple grew in his left cheek. “It’s a favorite. I find it to be such an approachable wine. It is full-bodied and elegant while it pairs with nearly every kind of food but also stands alone quite well. I enjoy the sleek softness of it - fruity, velvety, so rich in nature,” he added as he took a sip from the wine glass the waiter had placed before him.

In addition to softly sensual, like the way in which you partake of its richness, Zelda could not help but mentally note, watching his throat as he swallowed. My God, but had anyone ever been able to describe the deliciousness of a glass of wine or Merlot in such a way? She was sure not. Indeed, the enunciation and the beauty in his description, rhythm, and flow of words were like the velvety, rich smoothness of the wine personified.

He looked at her and extended his hand, “My name is Gawain.”

She responded, captivated by his beautiful smile, with one of her own. “Zelda,” she said and felt the warmth in his firm handshake.

“What a lovely name. Quite unusual though,” he noted.

She nodded. “My mother was a huge fan of Fitzgerald.”

“Ah, yes, I see. Well, it certainly suits you quite well.” He then gave a small laugh before he continued. ”My mother was obviously a fan of the Arthurian legends.” As he spoke, he watched her intently, as though attempting to determine what she was thinking. Knowing exactly what she’d just been thinking about the soft sensuality in the way in which he had described his wine and then partook of it made Zelda blush again as she looked down into her own glass.

“Are you from New Orleans, Zelda?” he asked.

“I am,” she nodded and laughed softly. “Quite thoroughly Southern.”

“Like a Magnolia, I would say. Or perhaps, better yet, a lovely Camellia,” he responded in earnest.

Zelda looked at him, flattered that he would think her as lovely as a Southern bloom as he was certainly a stunning specimen in his own right. Gawain’s green eyes watched her over the light of the table’s candle as she returned their intensity with her blue gaze. The strength of their connection seemed to intensify like the flame of the candle.

“Thank you for the lovely compliment. May I ask where your home is?” Zelda asked and looked down and pretending to remove an invisible piece of lint from the table.

“I’m from across the pond,” he replied. “Cornwall, England to be precise. But I like it here very much and think I might stay a while longer than first planned.”

Zelda looked up as she heard the emphasis in his words. His green eyes continued to gaze at her as if she were the only person in the room, wanting to gage her reaction to the words he spoke.

She suddenly grew a little more confident and gave him a beautiful, warm smile. “That would be wonderful, Gawain. I am your number one fan, I assure you. I could easily listen to you read for endless years. Your voice is so lovely and made for such lovely recitations.”

At her words, he cocked his head a bit and his brow rose in question as he looked at her. “Endless years? I fear you might regret that one, my dear.”

Realizing what she’d said and what he was inferring, Zelda blushed and mentally cursed herself for doing so yet again while also silently answering him. I would never tire of that sensuous, velvet voice of yours - not even in a million years!

He looked down at the table and noted the lovely antique edition of Lady of the Lake that she’d brought with her before glancing up to study her a bit more. After a moment, his voice laced with seriousness, he said, “Why do I feel as if I already know you, Zelda? As if I have always known you?”

In response, Zelda emitted a faint, nervous laugh and quickly took a sip of her wine before she said, “Quite possibly because I’ve been to all your readings, hanging on to each and every word. I adore the Classics and the way in which you read them is so beautiful.” If only you could know how much I adore you, too.

“Yes, quite possibly, but still….one has to wonder,” he said as he reached across the table to lightly touch Zelda’s hand with his own. Unexpected, the touch was like a bolt of electricity. Stunned surprise surfaced in both eyes of green and blue.

Zelda’s breath caught in her throat, as she realized the full importance of her visit to The Prose and Wine this night. She shivered again as she realized that had she not come to this evening reading, there would have been no Gawain at her table, and no such connection between them. Yes, fate was an oxymoron: tricky and wondrous at the same time. She was immensely pleased she had listened to her voice of reason earlier that afternoon and come tonight. For in the briefest heartbeat, Zelda knew the connection between them had already grown with unusual and easy momentum. It was gaining a life of its’ own, much like a newly opened bottle of Merlot being exposed to the air, thereby allowing it to breathe while the fullness embodied therein enhanced with every second it rested. No, she was not dreaming. This was blissful reality. All roads were converging in a way that felt completely natural and completely right tonight. Without a doubt, there was a consequence for every little inconsequential action.

“Shall we do this again, Zelda?” Gawain asked, emboldened by the look in her green eyes.

“Yes, most assuredly.” Zelda quickly replied.

“Well,” he began, but then briefly diverted his gaze to the glass of Merlot before continuing as though he was slightly nervous. “Perhaps we should consider this to be our first date for I find that I am already looking forward to our next one.”

Suddenly, filled with newborn confidence and joy, Zelda lifted her slim hand so that her delicate fingers lay atop Gawain’s hand. It was warm to her touch, and she felt the gentle strength embodied therein. Realizing there were unknown and uncharted depths awaiting discovery within the man seated before her, she felt a thrill of anticipation and excitement. Smiling exuberantly, she answered, “Indeed, nothing would please me more, Gawain. I, too, cannot wait for what tomorrow may bring.”

It's not that first, or second day

it's the quiet day, where the shadow creeps up,

commanding your attention,

Looking straight at this,

crippling feature,

of a life not fully lived,

the glass eye is not clear,

my life isn't clear

nothing I say or do,

has meaning,

in my fractured soul.

I can feel myself

Slowly slipping away from me

Forgetting the things that I used to love

The reasons to live

The reasons to die

So I'm stuck mere existence

Just floating around like—not a ghost—

Nothing I can think of that is neither here nor there

Except me

I do the same things over and over

Day after day

Watching the clock

Knowing the feeling of two hours

Exactly how long a minute actually is

Because I watch the time so much now

Do you know the feeling? Of time passing? I feel it

It breathes down my neck

A tick

....tick

With no boom

It's like I feel my soul flickering

Like a candle in the wind

My will fading

Like paint on aged wall

Blotched ink on faded paper

I don't wake up with excitement

I don't look forward to the day any longer

I teach the kids, exercise, drink a lot of water

I do only things that are good for me now

Do you know the feeling? When the thrill of doing something you shouldn't do leaves you? I know it

It's what makes life worth living you know

Doing things you shouldn't do

Enjoying the thrill of defying something, someone, yourself, society

No matter how little you do defy

And when that's gone, what is left?

I can feel the hollowness in my being

A silence where my curiosity used to be

I do things

But I put them off for much longer

There's a pattern

But there's no rhyme

I'm starting to feel like the poems I write

Do you know the feeling?

Azur, navy… no, cobalt the sky

Cyan the sounding sea.

An emerald forest

A forest meadow

A kelly green lime tree.

Daffodils lunge

At butterscotch suns

Canary gold flies free,

Into dawn’s bloody gushing

Into dusk’s crimson flushing

Or to the pale, rosy-blush of she.

But it’s only a ruse,

The colors I use

Are always black on white.

Yet they mix in a way

That needn’t turn gray

In the picture that you see.

I am as a plate or a class cup.

If you hurt me,

You can glue me back together,

But I will still be broken.

Full of ugly cracks and chips.

But if I go to the right person

They will put me back together

In the most beautiful way,

And all the scars you left me with.

Will be gold.

The weather has changed 4 times since staring out my window

Snowy

Sunny

Rainy

Cloudy

back and forth they jump as I stare

at the trees that climb to the sky

the birds hopping branch to branch, unsure of what to think,

the same as I,

about mother nature's indecision

as I sit in my warm bed with my own clouds in my own head

my only choice but to look up and out

through my small square window

hoping that one day my own clouds will pass

It’s what they say about us

That gives us our poison

And ferocious bite

They call us cruel

Deceptive parasites

As if we enjoy lying in wait

For one of the living

To become our prey

We watch you swat at flies

Step on worms

and end countless little lives

Then proceed to go about yours

Life’s not an easy game to play

Being the monster

All the time

It's not a joy or envious position

I ask you how can we live on dust?

I take what I can get

Because it's mine for the taking

I spy with my watchful eye,

the tulips and jonquils and wild violet’s

saying

”Spring is Sprung!”

The Robin red breast searches for a meal, and the swallows have come to bless my home.

All while the cheery Cardinal tells

us every day to be “Cheerful Cheerful Cheerful!”

Isn't that a lovely way to wake up to and greet the day?

No one knows where we are. We’re miserably lost.

Amidst the darkness, my mom spots a pinprick of light up ahead.

Driving along the country road, falling snow envelops us like a cocoon, it floats like sprinkled stardust in the milky luminosity of our headlights.

“Up there,” cries my mom, “it looks like a little cottage. Don’t you agree, Isabella?”

“Yeah,” I mumble, noticing that she doesn’t ask my dad his opinion. In fact, she’s barely spoken to him during our trip. Or attempted trip, I never thought we’d get lost on the way to New Hampshire in the middle of December to visit my grandma. Lost on the way to granny’s house? Isn’t that straight out of some gory fairytale? And now a cottage to boot? What the hell?

But here it sits in front of our car, beckoning it seems, and curiosity prances through our minds.

The epitome of an English cottage, it sports a cherry-red door, fairy lights under the soffits, and creeping ivy winding along the stone facade. The light dusting of snow sparkling on the roof gives the illusion of sugar-frosting on a cake. Seriously?

As we approach on foot however, suddenly, the mood changes. I glimpse shadowy figures lurking in corners of the porch, and shudder as a chill traces my spine. The flapping of ravens’ wings startles me. Birds of oily black are perched atop two narrow, but lofty signs made of granite with ‘The Museum of Discarded Children’s Souls’ etched into them. They stand on either side of the door like knights in armor in front of a medieval castle. It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever come across in all my seventeen years.

My dad says, “Let’s knock and ask for directions to Concord.”

The door is opened by a lady wearing an apron tied around her waist smeared with fudge, nutmeg, and cinnamon, scents so inviting I crave tasting them.

“Welcome,” she says, “I’ve just taken the gingerbread cookie cups and fudge caramel brownies out of the oven, come in.”

Amidst the yummy baking smells, I detect something else in the air… a cloying waft of roses. It’s not an entirely unpleasant aroma, but it does strike me as being out of place somehow.

Once inside, although I’m grateful for the warmth, I suddenly freeze. I can’t believe the sight before my eyes. The things I see hanging suspended from the ceiling.

Hundreds of massive multicolored dollhouses and hollowed out spaceships, the size of a smart car, dangle from thick chains. Various items are showcased in them like trophies in a glass cabinet.

I drift from one dollhouse to the next, one rocket ship to another, looking at the pieces lodged within their shells, studying them like my life depends on knowing why they’re there.

“In this house,” the lady narrates, “we have one of our more evocative pieces, these little yellow rubber boots and rain jacket belonged to Jenna Wade, just five years old when her daddy left. See this here, next to the rainy-day things Jenna loved? It’s a brick of cocaine. Her dad liked to party more than he loved her, you see?”

I don’t really see, so I try shaking my head but something’s not right with my body. I’m a puppet being manipulated by someone pulling my invisible strings.

“Over here,” the lady continues, and I follow her, my feet floating on air like a ghostly being, “we have a football and helmet that belonged to Jonathan Wilson who was only eleven when he lost his father to these types of abominations.” She points to a giant photo of a sleazy woman holding a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Whiskey. She looks like a prostitute.

“Jonathan prayed that his dad would come to his football games to see him score a touchdown. He wanted his dad to be proud of him, but it was not to be. Jonathan’s mom donated these to us just a year after he was incarcerated. Poor kid hit rock bottom after struggling with depression. He yearned for his father so much. They all do, you know?”

We trail behind her like those kids in their trance-induced state, filing behind the Pied Piper, to other exhibits.

A slab of sidewalk nestled in the living room of a blue and purple dollhouse, displays a medley of colorful chalk drawings, rainbows of hues, assortments of shapes. Next to the concrete is a picture of a ranch with a mansion, horse stables, tennis courts and an Olympic-sized swimming pool.

“This was donated by thirteen-year-old Courtney’s dad whose wife, and mother of his only daughter, left them for a rich sugar daddy. Courtney loved art. But she began using drugs shortly after her mom ditched her, started sneaking out, drinking, and her

dad felt helpless. It was tragic. She’s in rehab but, alas, not doing well.”

I start to cry.

I’ve heard the venomous hiss of the word divorce whispered from my parents’ lips.

But despite the hurt stinging my heart and soul, like lemon juice on cuts, the tears I’ve shed are more from embarrassment and jealousy. I’m envious of anyone whose parents are together, and I don’t even care how selfish that sounds.

Carsten and I truly love each other. And though we’re both young, high school sweethearts can end up happily married. They can have the proverbial white picket fence. Carsten’s parents are proof, they’re committed to stay together until death do them part. I want that too. Both sets of parents at our wedding and celebrating the births of our children. I don’t want to spend one Christmas at my mom’s and another at my dad’s. And have my kids call some stranger Grandpa Bob or Grandma Shirley– whatever dumbass my mom decides to fall for, or witch my dad replaces my mom with. If they split, I’ll die missing them both. And to hell with everyone else’s bullshit-take on how blended families can work wonderfully. There’s no Brady Bunch in this cruel world.

My sobs echo, like voices inside a rocky canyon, throughout the museum.

“Come, Isabella, dry your eyes. Let’s have your father look at this particular display,” the lady commands.

Within the biggest dollhouse yet, I spot a pair of pink ballet slippers, a bit worn but still exquisite. Then I gasp. They are mine. I can tell by the ink stain where I once dropped my calligraphy pen when I was hurriedly packing up my school things after dance class.

“What on earth…?” My mom’s voice comes out strangled.

Next to the shoes, there’s a picture of Lorraine. It’s her, I’d recognize that face anywhere.

“This young lady didn’t survive her dad’s abandonment, she was destroyed by the selfish way he discarded her for another family. Poor devastated Isabella died by her own hand. All because of this…” the lady sneers, tapping her fingernail on the photo of Lorraine, “…homewrecker.”

In a sudden moment of rage, she reaches into the dollhouse, grabs the polaroid, and rips it into tiny pieces.

She screams “But he didn’t say no to being seduced by her mom’s best friend. Did he?

No. Instead, he shattered a family for horrid, backstabbing, phony Lorraine. And now beautiful, young Isabella lies buried in the cemetery overlooking the valley.”

Raking her nails down her face, drawing blood, she shrieks “Her mom, weeping rivers of tears each and every day, brings pink roses to her grave. I can smell those roses now, can’t you?”