387. Come Sail Away

“If I might ask, what made you think of the spider?” asked John.

“Bravo,” said Kyra. “Lot of memories in those last few hours, thinking we were going to die. Hard not think of what could have been.”

“Do you ever wonder how—“

“How I carry on? How any of us keep going?”

“Yes.”

“Some days, like today, and don’t ask me to explain it, maybe it’s just a general weariness that has accumulated like layers of dirt, I don’t know, but on days like today, days when I should be happy for our good fortune—“

“You don’t feel like—“

“Carrying on.”

The two stood silent for several minutes.

Kyra spoke. “You know what it is about Bravo that I have a hard time shaking?”

“What?”

“When we were hit and I saw Von, saw his face . . .”

“What about it?”

“John, I saw a peace that I don’t think I’ve seen since. And there are days when I just want that peace, where I feel everything I know just quietly slipping away and—“

“And you don’t have the strength to hold on.”

“Yes.”

“And you start to let go.”

“Yes.”

“And then something happens.”

“Yes.”

“Like a little girl who believes.”

“Yes.”

Soundtrack: Come Sail Away (Styx)

386. Teacher at Work

Papa sat still as a rock, his tanned forehead, countenance majestic as if pottered by the very hand of Janus, looked like a monument carved into some distant mountain. Kyra squinted her little sapphire jewels trying to see what he was doing, but from a watch it appeared as if he was doing nothing. Advancing like a cat, she moved a little closer, pretending, hoping, she was as invisible as feline to mouse.

Gossip close and delighted with her Papa-like stealth, Kyra whispered words as doves to the sun of her eye and heart, to ears as beautiful as trellis rosed, “Whatcha doing big ears?”

Without turning his head, Papa smiled into the morning sun, his eyes as alive and joyful as the matutinal surf at Valla. “Shhhhhh, my teacher is at work. We must not disturb the lesson.”

Kyra tip-toed to his white tunic-ed side, and leaning over, placed her small porcelain arms upon his broad shoulder, her chin nestling into the nook of his neck, her midnight black hair, smooth as Grandma silk, fanning over nape latitudinous. In a small corner of the porch, between weathered wooden slates, silvery strings swayed in the gentle ocean breeze as if musical notes in harmony with the wind. In the center, mother spider, hourglass tight and shinning like a wet marble, spun home and hearth. “Oooooooh, she’s back.”

“Yes she is,” said Papa.

“Who’s back,” asked John.

“Oh, didn’t see you there. What did you say?”

“You said, ‘Ooooooh, she’s back.” John smiled with expectant eyes. “Who is she?”

“A spider.”

“A what?”

“You know, a spider. Anyway, when I was a little girl, about the age of Ariel, one morning Papa and I noticed a spider building a web on the deck. For days we watched her weave her web, and then, one morning, as if by magic, an egg sac appeared. We were so excited. She was going to have babies. And we had a front row seat. Well, the next morning we got up, and there was Grand, on the deck, broom in hand. Wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know. Suppose I would have done the same. Still, I cried my eyes out. You see, Grand had swept the spider and her web and those babies unborn right off the deck. I remember looking at Papa, and I learned the first of two lessons. He leaned down, wiped the tears from my cheeks and told me he loved me and that we had an opportunity, a chance to rise above the temporary emotions of the moment and see the bigger picture. He said what had been done, was done and that our responsibility was to let go what we could not change and instead we could honor the mother spider by showing the same love she had to her babies to Grand. Then he took my hand and we walked over to Grand, hugged her, and told her we loved her—actually, he told her he loved her. I was still crying.”

“Did she know what she had done or why you were crying?”

“She had no idea, nor did we tell her. As for my tears, Papa told her they were tears of love for all that she had done for us. And so, there we were, the three of us, in the morning sun, hugging and crying and I saw a love in old hands and wise hearts and my tears turned from sadness to something much deeper.”

“And the second lesson?”

“Well, the next morning, I got up a little later than normal and when I walked out to the deck, I saw Papa just sitting. Seems as if Grand didn’t kill the mother after all, although the egg sac was gone, she was back, rebuilding.”

“What did Papa say?”

“Never let what you can’t control, stop you from doing what you can. Even thought all her babies were taken away in the sweep of a broom, she didn’t give up, didn’t feel sorry for herself, but came right back.”

“Sounds to me like the same lesson.”

“Yes it does. Papa was like that.”

385. Ariel Angelic

ed note: On this date, two years hence, an image appeared and I wrote a few words of love. Almost 4oo postings and images later, The Story endures. As a tribute to so many loyal readers and fans, I offer a return to all that is good, the very fabric of love as seen in the pure heart of a child. Join me in the miracle of Ariel as we celebrate a story that is as much yours as it is mine. To mark the two-year anniversary, AutumnStorm has created The Official Fan Site for The Story. To say that I am blown away with the labor of her love would be a gross understatement.


"Home?" asked Em.

"Bravo, Em. Seems the commander dispatched a crew to repair our old mount," said Kyra. "She will be ready when we arrive, with a few improvements. Better than new it appears."

"I thought she was destroyed," said Trev.

"Just beyond our capacity to repair." Kyra measured the group, her hands still firmly holding the slate in front of her, the yellowish-green glow giving her face an ethereal quality in the dim light of the transport as a lantern might in a barn. "There is more."

The crew stood courtroom quiet before verdict read.

Kyra continued, "Upon our arrival, a dinner."

"What kind of dinner?" asked Von.

"The kind with a guest, call it a gift or perhaps an answer to a prayer." The words spun in the air as if weaving a patchwork quilt of hope, each member contributing their own swatch threaded on plea and petition.

Rog, never one for patience or prayer, broke the silence like a whip cracking cold air. "Oh pray tell, spit it out."

Kyra lowered an unhurried smile at Rog and then looked toward Em. All eyes followed. "Dr X."

"Holy Shiott," exclaimed Yul. "Does that mean what I think it means?"

"I think it does Yul."

Ariel tugged at Kyra's sleeve and whispered, "What does it mean?"

"It means there is a very good chance Em is going to see again."

Ariel looked at Kyra, looked at Em and then looked back again to Kyra. "Yes, yes, go."

With a skip more like deer than child, Ariel shot toward Em. "Did you hear that. You are going to see again. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it."

Em reached out and rubbed Ariel's head, looking almost embarrassed by fortune; her head swaying slightly like a tall building in the wind as if the words and thoughts themselves were a gale of possibility.

Ariel jumped up and down. "Aren't you going to ask me how I knew?"

"How did you know sweet child?" asked Em, unable to hold back a chary smile.

"I asked my mom for a favor. And she told me I could only have one so to make sure it was what I really wanted."

Em's fingers traced Ariel's face as if in the tracing she could see what her ears were not believing.

"Hey silly, aren't you going to ask me what I asked for?"

Enunciating her words to the throbbing beat of her heart, Em spoke as if before an angel. "What did you ask for?"

"That I wanted you to be able to see your mom again. That you wanted that more than anything in the world."

384. Don't Spare the Horses

A single tear rolled down Kyra's porcelain face, her visage aglow in the virescent light of the slate. The rest of the crew stood about her like expectant fans at an amphitheater; John and Von beaming like parents on Christmas day.

"What does it say?" asked Trev.

Kyra looked up and smiled with her cheeks, which only served to push a few more tears wayward. "We're going home."

383. Red Hawt

"John, we've got no money," repeated Kyra.

"Well, I don't want to over-dramatize the situation, but we either find something of value or, quite literally, my arse is Tabood's."

"Put Von on."

"Afraid it is as he says, literally."

"What the frail does that mean, literally?"

"You know how, ahem, your peaks of motherly nourishment glow blue?"

"Yeah."

"Well, Tabood's agent glows reddish-orange."

"Okay."

"And it increases in temp, like a poker," added John.

"What?"

"I shiott you not. The damn thing is a physiological wonder. Only known species to wield, excuse me, a heat seeking missile."

"And you find this amusing? I mean, it is your arse."

"Some things are so absurd as to induce hilarity. Besides, the damn thing is so big, he would split me in two before the heat fried my insides. Can you imagine?"

"I can't even imagine we are having this conversation," said Kyra. "Not now Trev."

"Look, I know I'm full of clichés, but my arse is on the line. Rock and a hard place."

"You're making me laugh."

"Glad you find this funny."

"What Trev! What?"

"I think I've got a solution."

382. Quirt Me

Overheard: Yul to Rog

quirt me big boy

then slear me as a knight slays a dragon; and upon the alter of my bosom, rest your pride warm and satisfied

Intermission: August Rush

If I were to make a movie, it would be like this:

August Rush

381. Coin

"You don't remember me do you?" said Tabood, his eyes rolling in his sockets like dry ball-bearings.

"Can't say that I do," said John.

"I suppose one don't care to remember the frailable. You know you need them, and you use them, use their life, take it like a man takes a breath, and you choose to not know, not remember."

"What is he talking about?" asked Von.

"I have no idea."

"Shut up. We're on gun law now. And I got the gun. You, old man. You know what this slag is?"

Von didn't answer.

"Ask anyone what a Kulmykian is. You'll get one answer--heartless, gutless filth. They think the universe is their bitch, a bitch grown tired and weary from rape and pillage. Even these common whores here will tell you." Tabood motioned. Two metallic heads, one ruby-red, the other primrose-dawn, legged over. "Ask them."

Still no response from Von.

Muzzle to nose, cold blue metal shoved under Von's ruddy equine nose. "I said frailing ask them."

John nodded.

Von spoke. Tabood crossed his arms. Lights neon reflected off his living armor. His eyes narrowing in satisfaction. The ruby-red whore lifted her squamata, and voided her bladder. Von appeared unimpressed. Tossing her shiny metallic locks back, she stood, turning her bare back to Von, and where neither words nor bladder could convey, the scars of a horrific quirting spoke in gouache welts purple and red as if worms aboded under her skin. Von scratched his head. It didn't itch.

"You've made your point," said John. "What do you want?"

"If I were a creature of karma, I'd turn you in to your own kind. I understand they would feed on your flesh like weak acid. If I were Kulmykian, I'd frail you in your arse right here, right now for the downtrodden to relish. But I'm not Kylmykian nor do I believe in karma."

"Spit it out. What do you want then?"

"Coin."

380. The Hood

The Hood: Tom, we've had a chance to review your report.

Tom: Yes sir.

The Hood: Seems there was a bit of trouble on Tranquility.

Tom: Yes sir.

The Hood: A breakdown in discipline your report says.

Tom: Yes sir.

The Hood: (eyes scan Tom) I see.

Tom: (stares straight ahead)

The Hood: Your report is a bit sparse on this breech. Explain.

Tom: Sir, as you know, John and Cait were personal friends of mine. What occurred before the destruction of the Tranquility is something I would rather not remember and since detailing the atrocity would serve no purpose in the greater scheme of the Deleo, I chose not to elaborate.

The Hood: Not your place to make those judgments.

Tom: Yes sir.

The Hood: History must be honored. For the children. They must know.

Tom: Sir, I'm afraid I don't follow.

The Hood: Tell me what happened. For history. So that we may be honored by telling the truth, however painful that may be. Honor the children Tom. Give us the record. You are a man of honor, are you not Tom?

Tom: (looks uncomfortable) Two of my men, on the boarding party, disobeyed orders. Before killing Cait, they raped her. The rape, unfortunately set off an unexpected reaction, and what was to be clean, became chaotic and ugly.

The Hood: (after a slight pause) Who set the self-destruct on Tranquility?

Tom: We don't know sir.

The Hood: But we do know you were the only survivor. Is that true?

Tom: Yes sir.

The Hood: And we know that John and Kyra and everyone else on Tranquility is dead.

Tom: Yes sir.

The Hood: I see.

Tom: Will that be all sir?

The Hood: Yes.

Tom: (turns to leave, only the sound of his heels is heard clicking and clacking toward the door)

The Hood: Tom?

Tom: Yes sir?

The Hood: One more thing. Have you ever heard the name Taboodja?

379. Golden Wabi's

(ed note: this chapter takes place on Hyneria, in "story time" almost two years earlier, shortly after Bravo departed)

Zeke's leathery hands, hands of love, of care, of concern, tossed more feed into the basin like rain to soil, life supported from hand to mouth, of one above to those below, not unlike Janus to Hynerian, or so it was believed. His golden wabi's, koi mouthed, fed in the clear and quiet waters of their enclosed universe, peacefully unaware of the troubles without. What was the difference, if he left. They would die as would those left on Hyneria, regardless. Looking above, his mouth as agap as the feeding fish, he had not the energy to question Janus.

Blu hovered to his side, his perse hue blending into the prevailing mood. The skies of Valla had long since given up bright for dark and brother sun, once omnipresent, seemed permanently censored by a dense gray ceiling of roiling clouds. The palette of yellows and oranges and azures gave way to an endless monotony of dull gray and slate blue, as if the planet itself was winter depressed. The cheerful beaches of the compound, a canvas for so many joyful memories, seemed faded and abused and hardly recognizable as spumy waves slammed ashore with roar and slap as if the bewildered hoary sea wanted to strike out at the only object in reach, a cornered, cowering coast.

Above the gentle bubbling of the basin, Zeke spoke. "Blu, what do you think of Ji's proposal?"

Blu glided closer and his eyes begin to glow and blink as if he were carefully considering his response, as if fearful of emoting. "I don't want you to leave me."

"I won't leave you."

"You have no choice. I am a mechanical. If I go, then I deny a sentient a place."

"I didn't say I was going."

"You must."

"Why?"

"Hope."

"Then I will find a way to bring you. There is always a way."

"And if you bring me, who will care the wabi's?"

378. Nothing More Beautiful

"What's a Hynerian?"

Kyra kneeled with the crack of leather, her eyes on level with Ariel's. "A silly label given to divide what was once undivided. We do it with river and gulf, with ground and sky. We think it makes us civilized, important, learned."

Ariel looked puzzled. "Emy said she was one. And that you were too. And when I asked her if I was, she said no."

"Em was right. You see, you are much more than a silly label. You're a child of the universe. And there is nothing more beautiful than that."

"Are you a child of the universe too?"

"Yes."

"And Em?"

"Yes, Em too."

Ariel pondered her answers like a little lawyer. Satisfied, she launched herself into Kyra's arms and proclaimed, "Then we should play like children and leave those serious adults to their bidness."

Kyra pulled her head back. "Bidness? Where did you hear that?"

"Rog. He said he was going to give Yul the "bidness" and he sounded very serious about it, so I thought it must be something those silly adults do."

Kyra laughed like a child at the end of a long school day. "You know what?"

"What?"

"I think we should go play."

"Can Em come too?"

"Absolutely."

And two smiles became three as Kyra looked above and gave thanks.

377. This Place is No Place

Jeweled warts glistened upon a worn face of lamellar scales. Taboodja, of eye aubergine, had a plan. Frail John. That was the plan. Simple. Few moving parts. Little to complicate. Just frail the golden boy. Payback was a damn sweet motherfrailing slit of a bitch worn loose from wear. The thought of frailing John, prostrated before heathens and heaven alike, in his cold sphinctered tight arse, a public frailing, before the jaded and bejeweled split-tails, delighted his diseased imagination like warm rancid milk in a goat's bowl.

Tabood stood and measured his leathered tumidity with satisfaction. Looking about, the kaleidoscope of debauchery drifted before his dull eyes, whores and more whores, dancing as hips upon mirrored glass, money sucking sluts with painted smiles, bodies on autopilot, minds long since jettisoned. The lude smell of obscura drifted in the air, poor grade mixed with home brewed. Lights gaudy, stacked like a bad dream, beamed, flashed and buzzed ware and trade in the eternal night of moon life. Drum ribbed children slumped and scattered under weight not seen, their smiles stolen in the wicked commerce, laid bare upon days without end, of tunnels alight with the grin of a soulless master, black of heart, whip of hand; the doors of their souls locked, the windows of their eyes blackened by the faint hand of hope.

Work the rock. Work the hard place. Make the deal. Play the game. Party of the first part dead. Party of the second part desperate. Work it lubeless, work it with jagged rusted prejudice. Into the neon night Tabood smiled in yellow fangs foul with yesterday's substance, pores blistering with milky teeming pus, rank of smell like three day butchered meat.

Tabood picked his neglected nails, spitting refuse as chaff. He had the time of one with all the cards, the visage of a plan weighed and sorted and sorted and weighed. Snorting through his moist purple snout, casting virus-born phlegm upon the dirty silver metal planking, he hacked up a vile custard of hue chartreuse, wiped clean with the back of his golden burnished scaled hand.

John looked at Von quiet as church before those of bended back and crooked knee arrive. "Tighten your shiott."

Leather strained by din of hand prepared. Weapons, cold cocked, ready to frail the shiott out of innocent and guilty alike. Fear confessed, now or later, before no bean frailing counter. "Shiott secured," said Von.

"There is nothing here worth the weighing if weighing deign upon the moment. This place is no place."

"I see what needs not what wants."

John stopped, the circus of light and slut tight on their smell. "Is that some kind of Zing shiott?"

"Nope. I got a hide long for the tannery. And I mean to keep it that way."

"I think I'm beginning to see why Rog likes you. Now--"

"Look, this ain't my first rodeo. You lead, I'll follow. And if you frail it up, I'll pull your arse from the fire before the crew can sniff your Kulmykian bacon."

"Really?"

"No, not really. But it sounded good didn't it?"

John smiled. Von didn't. His scalp begin to itch under eyes fixed of intent not pure from the right of the broadway. A bolt of orange tinged the air as John and Von parted as pages of a book left and right.

"Pick yourselves up. If I wanted you dead, you'd be." Tabood stood above the fallen pair trying hard to suppress the smile behind his large purple oculars.

376. Reu-nion

No I would not give you false hope
On this strange and mournful day
But the mother and child reu-nion
Is only a motion away, oh, little darling of mine.

(Lyrics: Paul Simon)

Kyra and Ariel held hands as John (and Von) departed, her little hand gripping Kyra’s finger tighter and tighter as her father vanished from sight in the isabelline haze. The two stood frozen in silence, each as alone as together, watching the empty fog as if thoughts were ice. As Kyra made a motion to leave, quick as lightning, Ariel snapped her arms around Kyra's leather clad leg as one might hug a tree, her tiny feet firmly planted on the top of Kyra’s black boot. Kyra looked down and smiled. Ariel avoided eye contact. Walking as if in a three-legged race, the two trounced about the transport's steel floor, fear camouflaged with giggles, energy fueled by avoidance.

“Ariel, will you excuse me for a minute?” Kyra quickly added, “I’ll be right back. Promise.”

“Can I come with you?”

“Would you like to go on a special trip?”

“Where?”

“Give me a minute. I need to ask permission.”

--

“Granted.” (The Unknowns)

--

“Ariel, did I ever tell you about my mother?”

“No.”

“Well, I lost my mother too. And you know what I miss the most?”

“What?”

“I didn’t have the chance to say goodbye. I wanted to tell her that I loved her.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Long story, but let me ask you this. I want you to listen very carefully because I need you to understand what I am asking. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I have a gift, a special ability. I can’t use it very often but I think I would like to offer it to you.”

“I like gifts. Can I have it now?”

“Yes, but before I show it to you I need to explain a few things.”

Kyra talked quietly and Ariel listened, her cherry face aglow in the wonder of things only dreamed. The two knelt together in the center of the transport, holding hands and touching foreheads, as a bright teal glow enveloped them like a snow globe. The rest of the crew claimed the bright light lasted mere minutes. Ariel argued it was hours.

When the light faded and their eyes opened as close together as the bond forming within their hearts, Ariel threw her arms around Kyra’s neck and whispered: “My mom says thank you.”

375. Time

Ariel stood in the doorframe, still as a photograph, watching. John secured his kit. Items laid in order, neat as plan before contact, clear as a high mountain pool. One by one, routine memorized in the name of freedom, the remoras of necessity attached themselves to his frame and he looked cold as business on a Monday morning. In the turn, brown eyes met blue, father to daughter, the rope of connection swaying in the mind as the uncertain winds of mission stirred fear in a young simple heart. And for a wordless moment, a pause, as one looked down and the other looked up.

John knelt. Ariel stayed, holding the frame with tiny knuckles white in the whipping swirl of currents melanic.

"Ariel." He called.

With eyes full and cheeks quivering, her little hands began to shake.

"I love you," said John, his words a lasso.

Not moving, Ariel said. "You're leaving."

"I'll be back--"

"I don't want you to go."

"There is a man that is going to help us. I need to go see him. He has a ship for us. A bigger ship."

"I don't care. I don't care. I don't care. You always leave. Always."

She turned and ran, his words echoing in the empty frame, "Ariel. Ariel."

"John," commed Kyra.

"What?"

"It's time."

374. Taboodja

“Where we headed,” whispered Yul, having slipped into the only room of expulsion on the troop transport.

Rog, in midstream and of brow furrowed in thoughts past, misfired his agent of masculine surrender. “Damn.”

“You know,” she rasped, her nails pristine blue, palms outward, hands rising flamingos, tracing his ribs as smoothly as moonlight over hill and dale, “I could make it worth your while.”

Rog reached behind his head as a diver might, delts as dunes of shadow and might, his bruised fingers spreading over her yearning head, his chest expanding rippled steel. “Steer the ship, if you think you can handle it.”

Eyes intent dove as bird of prey into refulgent cisterns sparkling grey. “Been too frailing long.” Yul looked out the small window, inspiration in three moons. “Take me, there.”

Like a weathered cowboy at the end of a long day, leathered chaps warm from hard use, hat cocked with a grin, muscles lathered in honest labor, asking twice not needed.

--

“Quite a sight isn’t it,” said Kyra, as the three moons came into view.

John smiled, his eyes unable to see beauty in anything.

“What does the slate say?”

“What?”

“The slate. What does it say,” she asked again.

“Oh. Taboodja.”

“What?”

“Taboodja. Here look.”

“Taboodja. What does it mean?”

“Don’t know.”

“Well?”

“Huh?”

“Power the slate.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Well?”

“Says we dock on Pad 9 and asked for Taboodja.”

Kyra looked sideways at John.

“What?”

373. Dancing on Time

Their small silver transport, hull scorched brunt umber with Tranquility's ochre tonguing, limped quietly toward dock, a mechanical reflection of the sentient cargo carried within her blackened belly. Kyra, exhausted, not in the exhilaration of battle fought, but in the utter dull weariness of fate rising relentless as spring tide, tried to keep her eyes open. She felt like a prisoner piling chained before the vast unerring ocean, unshod feet wet with inevitability, scampering crabs nipping her toes in hasty retreat, water moving inexorably of moon new, lapping ever upward with devilish gurgles and cold licks. Motionlessly, she sat; mindlessly she watched Ariel gamboling about; the images jingling like keys, as memories long locked away opened within the halls of her mind.

"May I have this dance," asked Zeke. He stood in the center of the room, a warm yellow glow highlighting his white tunic, his smile as bright as the ocean was wide. The hynerian exuded charm and grace, a trait he never seemed to have to work very hard to exhibit.


His bride of heart and soul smiled. And in that smile, two souls joined hands and feet moved not asunder to a beat known in the memory of love grown as branches in the tree of time. Kyra, peeked her small head over the railing, her nightgown kissing the wooden floor, her eyes wide in the dance of light and love playing out in the smooth movements below. She imagined whispers of endearment as grand leaned her head into papa's broad chest, her hair flowing as silk, his arm wrapped with care around her waist. A tear fell.

"Kyra? asked Ariel. "Why are you crying?"

Startled, Kyra looked up. Rubbing her eyes she said: "Was I crying?"

"Do you miss your mom too?" Ariel added, her eyes as big as saucers.

Kyra smiled, the memories of her mind dancing in the young expectant eyes before her. In a voice as sincere and warm as natural honey she spoke as one someplace else. "Yes, I miss my mom too."

372. Bond Between Brothers

John slumped as if tragedy contagious, alone in his corner, aged ten years in two days. Skin once tight, loose. Eyes once limpid, lost. Hair once straight, in jailbreak. Hands once strong, upturned and broken in his lap like an aging prizefighter listening to someone else’s bell. His mind fading with the images he allowed himself to see, words said stuck in loop, playing and playing and playing . . .



Tom, entombed in iridescent glass, spoke through the respirator, his hoarse voice struggling on the raspy waves of modulated breath. “There’s a bond between brothers,” he said, “those bastards will never understand. They live in the foul mouth of darkness, glaring between rotting jagged teeth as razors, drinking their own blood and thinking it progress. Frail them my friend. See you in hell.” Tom punched the eject button. John stood dizzy of mind as if his head weighted ten times its normal weight and watched the glassed personal pod silently slip away, Tom grinning like a mad man, a gleaming pill swallowed by the cold unforgiving inky depth.


Score for this Chapter: Mu Vaibmu Vadjul Doppe by Mari Boine (Album: Eight Seasons)

371. Blessing to Be

Forks silver gleamed in the gloaming not to rise, as legs of metal, worn of battle and weary of weight, screeched on floors silent in words not wise. Vittles of origin not questioned, slipped between lips without confession, as eyes looked as strangers lost for expression. Heard in ear and not of chest, hearts beat alone (as) if not blessed. And from the aged not slain, innocence spoke not in vain.

“May I say the blessing?” asked Ariel.

Upon those words did spoon and fork, as not before and neither since, stood attention of soldier before their prince. Then as if a trellis rose, Von’s tongue let loose this prose.

“Yes my child a blessing to be, given forth my dear on bended knee.”

As one from the other, heads dropped to her without mother; and if an angel had surmised, the sight before no equal sunrise. Simple words of love were spoken, by a little heart not broken. And eyes once dry remained no longer, as hearts once weak became stronger.

Reading: Blessing to Be

370. Not Your Fault

The transport offered little privacy in a time where everyone wanted nothing other. In one of those strange flips of normalcy, those who always seemed to talk the most (with the least to say) found their vacuous minds staring into the bottomless pit of their inane hollowness as whip to tongue. In other words, the idiots on board kept their frailing mouths shut.

Two more days to port. Two more days of tears. Two more days to the plan, or at least stage two of the plan, whatever the shill that meant, for grief cared not of plans or ambition. John, who perhaps had the most reason, could not cry. Em, who, by seeing nothing, shed the most. Even blind, she found she could not wait for a chance to shed her agony without audience, without the suffocating closeness of tension measured in breath audible, of weep and sigh loping like chained eidolons across the graveyards of regret. Finding a corner in the blackness of her spinning mind, she sat. Her head as lead in her hands, her eyes red as august sun.

“It’s not your fault.”

Em lifted her head as if she could see. “What?”

“What happened is not your fault.”

If Em could have seen, an angel stood in sheer dress white, banes of primrose brushed neat as curtains before sparkling eyes blue. Larger than it seemed they should be. Em sniffled. “Tell me again. How old are you?”

Holding her hand up Ariel counted her fingers. “Six.”

Em quivered. “Six.”

“Your necklace is blinking. You know what that means?”

Em reached for her brooch, one she had hoped to see again, a sight that she felt had rendered exactly what John and Rog had feared. Maybe worst. To live when another had died. To suffer survivorship. But it was more than that. Death had come to others because of her. She was not just a survivor. She was cause and effect. And the cursed blindness taunted. She could not see the hatred the others must harbor and so her imagination multiplied the debt, pushed her deeper below the cold waters of despair, forever suspended in the moment before release into the wet breath of death as likewise denied release into the fresh breath of life.

“It means your mother is playing with my mother.”

Em spoke without breathing. “What did you say?”

“Your mother is happy. I can see her blinking. She has my mom to play with now and my mom is very fun.”

Em started crying again.

“Emy?”

“Yes.”

"Whenever my dad would leave on a trip and I was sad, my mom would say, 'together, we are stronger than we think.' Then she would hug me and we would cry together." There was a slight pause before Ariel added: “Can I hug you?"

369. Perdition

ed note: snippet from Kyra's Journal

Death. Casket black. Our number less. The Tranquility but a memory of fire and destruction. Our lives exchanged for others. Young men. Dead. I was given no damn choice. Neither were they. Mothers weep. Sisters cry. Fathers raise fisted hands against the inky ubiquitousness of perdition. My heart bleeds what my eyes have exhausted.