Is there order in our lives?
Can we see past woven lies?
Can we find a pot of gold?
Can we believe everything we’re told?
Is there a limit to too much?
How many hearts can we touch?
How many lives will we change?
How many people will think we’re strange?
Is there a chance to fix the world?
When different flags are unfurled?
And different languages keep us apart?
Can we listen to our central heart?
Is Human nature so long lost,
We won’t weigh the outcome before the cost?
He was a handsome lad of about nineteen. He was muscular, his hair had a perfect healthy shine, his blue eyes glowed expectantly, his smile was magnetic, his skin was like porcelain, and he spoke with a fairly light Irish accent. He was also completely egotistical and arrogant. Alaina knew this and she hated seeing her friends fall into his siren like trap of being able to play guitar. She knew so many of those people, being a guitarist herself, who picked up the instrument just for attention. He was no rock star, she fumed, he was a “wannabe.”
What equally annoyed her was his ability to pass a class with seemingly no effort. She didn’t know how he did it and wondered how many people he had paid to get his work done. At the rate he was going, he would be valedictorian of his class by the time he graduated while she would end up at the bottom of the heap.
She hated him for his easygoing nature and seeming laziness. She worked hard and she hated that he got everything he wanted without a quarter of the work. She wished she had what he did and she would have been less jealous and liked him a little bit more if he was humble. But while he was blessed with many things, he was not blessed with integrity and it made her skin crawl to think about him.
Which was why her mind was utterly blank at the moment and she felt the color drain from her pale face. Her mouth was dry and she fought against flapping it open and closed as if the words would come out all the while looking like a deranged baby bird. Her hands were sweating and she realized she looked like a bad horror movie extra as she stared at him wide-eyed, her mouth metaphorically nailed shut and leaning forward in disbelief.
He laughed nervously. “Is that a yes?”
She stared at him, something bubbling in her stomach. He had asked her on a date. She hated him, so why was the first thing coming to her mind a “yes”? She leaned back against the wall trying to get the painful feel of dry saliva out of her mouth. She swallowed.
“Sure,” she said. She felt herself mentally kicking herself and the bubbling in her stomach turn into a large rock. Now, why did you do that? she asked herself. Are you out of your bloody mind? What in the nine hells has gotten into you?
I don’t know, she thought, but you’d better shut up. He smiled his magnetic smile and her stomach tightened. She felt herself smiling back.
“Great! I’ll see you Friday night right here. Have a good day,” he waved as he walked away.
“See ya!” You sly Cassanova; once and only once. I will never go on a date with you again.
Damn, she thought shaking her light head and walking towards the lecture hall. What has gotten into you? Oh well, at least you’ve got a date with Micheal Brady!
The Sanguine River was more beautiful than it’s name implied. It ran well over half the country and even traveled between the Angora Mountain Range in the north. The river was a fortress wall for many civilizations and extra protections to most. It ran through several farm fields and guided many others to where they needed to go. The river and its tributaries were the best modes of transportation second only to the main highways on land.
North of the Angoras and a little south of where the river ended was a well-known bridge spanning a rather seldom traveled part of the river. It was known as Riveria as it was itself a town for the little folk. In order to appease the river fae, the King of the North built the bridge as a town where they could stay. It grew to be a much larger town than anyone had supposed and still allowed boats to travel by—as long as they paid a toll—unscathed. The river ended in a waterfall at the Fae Grove and the fairies of Riveria were close enough to that main spot to live industriously and happily.
Cassy was knew all the traditions of Riveria, as she was the main traveler between the fae and the humans for as long as she could remember. When she was too young, her brother and her parents went. Finally, she had inherited the title. Her cargo was small this time around and her pay not quite enough to pay the toll. Luckily, she wasn’t planning on passing through. She stopped her boat against the shore before the bridge and walked right on top of it. The bridge was strategically large enough for a small cart and she pulled a pinecone out of her pocket and let it drop down below. She waited a few seconds before she noticed the upper ledge of the bridge slip away and climb higher and higher into the sky. Suddenly she noticed a small door in one of the supporting poles open up quickly and a fae dressed in dark blue come out frowning.
“Are you trying to mock us?” he said sternly. Then he recognized her and his expressions became puzzled. “Oh, hello, Cassy.”
“Hi,” she said. “I have a delivery for you. I need to talk to someone in charge if possible.”
The guard smiled. “Glad it’s you, the town is a bit in a party mood, I’m afraid. We just don’t want to deal with a cheeky human. Well, follow me.”
This won’t be finished, but I’d love to see what sort of ending you come up with. If not, just imagine something.
“I just want to be appreciated,” she said her eyes growing dewy. “Is it so hard to ask for an artist to be appreciated?”
“Maybe we should make tee-shirts: ‘Have you hugged an artist today’?”
“I’m serious, Tom. And you should start appreciating me too.”
“I do appreciate you.”
“More than just my cooking.”
“Hey, I like your company too.”
“Honestly?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then tell me why I never see you at any performance. You’re not at the ballet, I can’t get you to go to the symphony or an art museum; you hardly read any good literature. I love you; but you are most certainly not an artist. I’d help you learn these things if you want to but all we ever do is go to the pool or see a Hollywood film downtown. If you appreciated me, you’d appreciate my work, too.”
“You’re a fantastic photographer and dancer and cook and pianist. Why do I have to tell you this over and over again?”
“Don’t tell me. Words are not truth. Actions speak more than words. Come to a show. I have one Tuesday night. Stay afterwards until everyone is gone and wait for me. You don’t have to say anything; you don’t have to bring flowers. Just please be on time and stay to watch.”
“That’s all you want?”
“That’s everything. I said I loved you and I don’t want to let you go, but I’m not going to continue this if I don’t get support from you. Art is all I have and I need one of the people I respect the most to appreciate me and my art.”
He pulled her in closer to him and brushed her hair gently with his hand. “I promise I’ll be there. Just for you.”
I remember that he never spoke with words. Only music. It was clearer than any language could convey. It was raw. It was sensuous. It was painful and soft. It was embarrassing. It was wrenching. It was flawed. It was.
I remember that last time he spoke was on the gondola in Italy—Venice, to be exact—and it was enshrouded in mist. It was just the two of us and I remember being doubtful about why he brought me along. I didn’t have my instrument, but he always kept his with him. It didn’t matter what it was; he could play anything. Absolutely anything.
The boat was gently navigating the buildings and besides the fog, the night was clear. The stars looked as crisp as cinnamon in an apple pie or white flecks of paint as they peel off to fall far below into dark water. He was sitting in his royal best, having been employed by the king and owning only the best silk. I was not so lucky and worked for my coin at various pubs and auditoriums. I had my best dress on, though. I didn’t know what to expect, but I was willing for anything and far into the evening nothing happened. He sat on the gondola with a small flute, playing an ode to the night.
I mentioned he spoke with music, but he wasn’t speaking to me. It was more of a soliloquy and I thought I shouldn’t be listening. But it was hard not to listen, just as it is hard not to eavesdrop to someone who thinks they are alone. One wants to know what he or she is saying and I wanted to know what he had called me to listen to. Part of me suspected he wanted me to eavesdrop, even though his tone was more to anyone listening rather than to a specific person. He had definitely asked me there for a reason.
At first it was small talk; little ditties of melodies I had heard him play so often. Then it was more of a painful thing. There was something bothering him. I got the feeling he was doing something that he had always wanted to do. He was exactly where he wanted to be in the same circumstances. But we both knew it wasn’t going to last the night. He was being honestly raw about his feelings and he blushed as he spoke, or played. Then, he lost something. He was sad and his melody lost the usual edge that he spoke with. His notes were slurring together and I realized he was crying. I reached out a hand to touch him and tell him it was all right when the melody stopped with a shrill whistle and he dropped the flute. I reached to pick it up, watching him sob, his shoulder like a buoy marking the edge of the ocean.
I didn’t know what to say and I tried to comfort him gently easing the notes out of the flute as best I could. But the flute was not my language and it was hard for me to speak with it. I was a string player, but I had to do the best with what I had. The gondola pulled up outside the opera where we had gotten on. He leaned forward and gave me a stiff hug before helping himself out of the boat. The boatman helped me onto the shore, but by then he was long gone.
The newspapers said he had just disappeared and then reported later—much later—that he was living in the countryside of France. I had returned to England long ago with his flute, which is now sitting in a golden box under my bed. I can’t look at it without a flood of memories but at the same time I can’t just let it be. Every year, on the anniversary of his last day, I’ll pull it out and let it glint in the moonlight. For some reason, that day is always a full moon. I try and put to words what he was trying to say, to formulate an answer, I suppose, but I can’t think of anything strong enough. I wish I had answered him the way he had wanted me to: just three simple words. But it took me a long time to figure that out. He wasn’t serenading me and it wasn’t flirtatious, so it took me many years of studying other people to know what he was trying to say. I’ve tried to write him, but I think that moment is lost with the night. I just wish I could hear him speak one more time.
“So what’s new with you?” he asked as he sat down next to her at the subway station.
“Nothing much,” she said. Then she pointed at the plethora of suitcases he set down next to the bench. “What about you?”
“I’ve decided to make a documentary.”
“Oh?”
“About the trains and the people on it. I’m going to go as far as it does today and then take a different colored line each day.”
“You probably won’t get very far.”
“The green line goes to the AmTrack station; I’ll get very far.”
“What’s the point?”
“To document the failing train traditions. It’s not the same as it used to be.”
The train pulled up to the station quickly with a heavy huff of hot air. The brakes squeaked against the rails as it slowed to a stop with petrol smelling air. The doors slid open with a small, quick rebound against the sides of the train. People stepped off the train towards the exits ignoring the others trying to get on and the colored advertisements decorating the brown speckled station. They got on the train and sat by the window. The doors clacked shut and the train sped off, the wind slapping the windows and walls of the subway.
“When life gives you lemons,
“Make lemonade.”
But lemonade is still a bit sour.
But you can profit by selling it for 25 cents
At a street corner with a cardboard sign.
There really is no perfect way
To fix things with a band-aid.
You’ll never get something sweet from sour,
But you can get something better with a little
Creativity and luck.
Words can only say so much
Paint can only go so far
Music can only penetrate
The ear of those willing to hear.
So what do we call on to bring a fight
To stop the senseless killing of boys afar
How to we get the world to hear
We’re sorry for stepping in to volunteer
Eventually its all been heard before
And words cannot penetrate broken ears
Paint can not startle overexposed eyes
Music cannot express
The sorrow or pain or cluelessness we feel
Even those who want to express
Can no longer feel the pain
That they once felt before
The years have passed and every person is a statistic
Forgotten and lost
Words can only say so much
Pictures even more
But it’s very hard to impact so much
When we’ve seen it all before.
With the continuation of the Intergalactic War and continual victories for Earth, it only made sense that society itself got a little cocky. Everything was more dangerous, riskier, and games got continually less and less safe. But with medical technology the way it was, no one really cared and only once in a blue moon did you hear about anyone dying.
One such growing favorite was among NASCAR racing. They extended their competition to motorcycles. It was a harsher competition: the turns were more dangerous, any pushing and shoving went straight to the driver’s legs, and you could see his or her expression as they went around the track. The look of frustration and bewilderment as the ejector seat took over before their vehicle went up in flames. Like I said, no one died, but it was an awesome sport to watch. It became so popular they had to split it into men’s and women’s divisions because there were just too many drivers out there. Soon after that it was an Olympic sport.
I worked as a mechanic for one of the best female racers in the world. It’s funny because people stop me on the street and ask for my autograph, but they usual don’t recognize her. Anyway, we were out on the town together the day before a big race because she loves to go to bars and get a chocolate martini the night before. I usually just order a Shirley Temple, which sends the waiters up in arms since I’m supposedly too old to be ordering a fake drink like that. But just as it’s ready, my drink is intercepted by a strange looking man sitting next to me. He hands it to me gently, reminding me of all the movies out there about suave young men trying to hit on equally attractive young women. Not that I’m movie star gorgeous, but for the sake of argument…
I asked him what he wanted, but he just said he was interested in speaking to the young woman next to me. She turned around and glanced at him. She asked him the same question, but in a rougher fashion. She’s the perfect example of not being what you expect. She looks like a model and is the most graceful person apart from a ballerina that you’ll ever meet, but when she talks she speaks like a southern boxer and you almost expect her to cock a shotgun when she asks that. He introduced himself as Tory Hunt and said he was the manager for a couple of the guys on the American motorcycle racing team. She sat there sipping her margarita taking in just about every word with one eyebrow up and the other one down like he was wasting her time. But she didn’t interrupt as he said he was missing a mechanic due to the war and he needed to borrow another one. Then he included both of us and asked whether we knew anyone who could mechanize a motorcycle for the races.
She looked at me and I knew she had a stupid idea and I tried to tell her no, but she had already volunteered me before I could get my mouth open. Tory raised his eyebrows and looked at me. I knew what he was thinking: usually mechanics for the guys are not girls. I don’t know why this is, but since there are enough female mechanics for all the female drivers it doesn’t seem to make a difference. It was breaking a protocol, but as soon as I saw him smile I knew he had grasped onto the idea, however crazy it was.
“No,” I said, “absolutely not!”
But it was too late at that point; they were already plotting against me.
So that brings you up to speed (no pun intended…well, yeah it was). I’m at the stadium working for a pretty famous gentleman driver. I say gentleman because that’s what he was: almost the opposite of Her except in listening skills. He didn’t look graceful, but he was a good dancer. And he thought the idea of me as his mechanic was insane. Problem was, I only met him the day before the men’s race and there was no time to say no. They promised no one would recognize me and I could do my stuff. With luck, they wouldn’t even have needed me. But I’m here anyway.
The gun goes off and the first lap goes according to plan. I have his second bike ready for the fourth lap all oiled and checked. I can see the other mechanics working beside me and I’m proud of myself that I was at least twice as fast as they. He turned smoothly around the bend a second time. Men’s races are dirtier ones than women’s. I’m not going to pretend I don’t have an inkling why, but it’s better to be open minded about such things rather than cynical. Third time around and he’s lost most of the crowd. Some guy on an orange bike it trying to wipe out the competition leaving the people in front with ample room. Nice of him, I think.
Fourth lap and he’s half a lap a head of the pack. Because I’m such a good mechanic (and cute, too), I’ve got his new bike ready and he barely steps off the old one before going off on his new one. He’s faster than She is about switching. Before the rest of the racers whiz by my station, I’ve fixed his old bike and reloaded it. The problem with the old bikes is that they use up fuel fast. The tanks had to be smaller because of the oil crisis back in 2020, so they only have a small amount of gas. That’s part of what makes bikes so expensive. He’s running on special fuel that isn’t good old petroleum, but his tank is that of a 2021 model motorcycle, so he doesn’t have much stored fuel anyway.
By the time I’ve set it up for his eighth lap, he’s been around one more time. The orange guy is coming up fast and I wish I could warn my driver to watch out for him, but he switches so fast I can’t even say hello. I can tell he gets in a mental zone when he’s driving, which is good I suppose for several reasons. For me, no one suspects I’m a girl.
Seven. Zoom. Eight, switch. Zoom. Nine. Zoom. Two bikes have exploded their drivers are in their respective circle. The guy on the orange bike is in the lead. Ten. Zoom. The exhaust pipe in the back of a blue motorcycle is rattling against the back wheel and slowing him down. I wish I could help, but he’s on the other side of the track. Eleven. Zoom. The crowd is getting more and more wild. Twelve, switch. Zoom. Thirteen. Zoom. The orange bike is trying to push my driver into the wall. Luckily, he has his starting bike, which I, personally, like better so he pushes ahead. The orange driver is right beside him and has him in a bottleneck (that’s what you call it when you’ve got barely enough room between the bike next to you and the wall). Fourteen.
Boom. Right behind me the blue bike cracks and the ejector seat sends the driver into the air as the bike explodes. But a broken exhaust pipe doesn’t usually do that. Orange has left my driver alone, but I know something’s wrong. The last person to whip by Blue was Orange and then Blue when up in flames. I’m swearing, which I never do, and hope the mechanic next to me doesn’t hear my voice.
What occurs to me at that moment is that Orange is employing a technique that only a couple people are allowed to do. It’s illegal, of course, but the cops let people do it because they usually get something out of it themselves.
With the growing risk of the games, sports gambling got riskier, too. Certain individuals would buy shares of a company’s stock and gamble the stock against winning racers. If a company saw that more stocks were for a certain driver, they hired drivers who either had no bets, or very few. In order to insure that certain riders won while others lost, without any risk of that information getting to the public, the winning riders were given sticker explosives to put on the bikes. They would just overheat the engine or cause some sort of malfunction that caused the ejector seats to take over and blow up the bike.
I didn’t know what would happen with a bike that didn’t run on petrol gas, but either way, my driver would lose the race. As a mechanic, that’s the last thing you want to happen because, well, on a practical level, it’s a pain in the nether regions to fix a broken bike.
Since you’re riding on motorcycles, there are no radios to quickly page my driver. He concentrates pretty hard anyway, I wouldn’t want to distract him and make him jump and cause the explosive to go off prematurely. I also knew that he wasn’t going to get off his bike for the next lap because it was his last one. Sixteen, though was a multiple of four and if there were more laps he should be switching. He whizzes past me. Fifteen.
I set up his last bike and do something I would never do with Her. I honk the horn. The crowd is screaming and then puzzled yelling as I see his head snap to where I am leaning on the horn and trying to get his attention. Orange whizzes by me. My driver seems clueless but he gets on the motorcycle I set up in record speed practically driving over my foot and leans forward on the bike to ease it forward for the last lap. Just as he heads away—
Boom! The red motorcycle didn’t stand a chance. The driver skids across the track and lands in the safe zone on the other side. My driver’s motorcycle explodes with a plain neck explosive. I had hoped if it wasn’t in use, it wouldn’t have gone to pieces, but it went anyway and took a nearby driver with it. The mechanic next to me swears loudly, but it isn’t my fault. I try not to catch his eye. Debris from the broken bike is everywhere and the driver of the red motorcycle is nowhere to be seen.
Finally, cheering and screaming. Orange whizzes past me, generally slowing down. Then my driver dodges the bits of bike on the track and pulls into his stop. He gets off his bike a little dazed.
“Who won?” I ask, but he just shakes his head and takes my hand.
“How’d you know?” he asked pointing to his previous bike. I shrugged as he probably couldn’t hear me over the noise anyway. It was taking the police a lot of effort to keep the fans in their seats. The crowd was chanting his name and the mechanic’s I replaced. My driver starts walking towards the locker room and I’m not sure what to do. If I follow…
Tory Hunt approaches me and motions for me to follow him. She was in the stands and was able to follow me out. Hunt hands me some money but I don’t let him pay me and say it was my pleasure. He says those are the bets that we got for winning. He also says I should fix the bike that exploded and maybe improve upon it. Hunt was about as subtle as a Great Dane in a baby carriage, but I let him have his fun and ask him what he meant. Once he explains that he wanted me to make a better model, I say I’d be glad to work with the original mechanic. Hunt says the old mechanic won’t be coming back for a while, so I’m no my own.
Anyway, it was an exciting day and I’m glad I read up on my sports gambling. If I didn’t…well, he wouldn’t have died, but Orange would have reason to gloat. We still would have lost the bike, but stories of that mysterious, brilliant mechanic also wouldn’t have been written in the gossip magazines. I’m so proud of myself sometimes.
“I had the strangest dream last night,” Cecilia said to her sister, Phoebe, while they were walking through the park one afternoon. Cecilia had insisted they take their talk from the restaurant outside since it was, as she had pointed out, a very lovely day. Phoebe wasn’t one for the outdoors as much. She loved the flowers and the butterflies in the park, but she wasn’t fond of the people or the honking of cars just beyond the line of trees. Cecilia always had a knack for ignoring things she didn’t like, but Phoebe had a hard time ignoring such details.
“Oh really,” Phoebe answered distractedly. She was gazing up at a gold finch, still brown although the trees had thick bunches of green leaves.
“I was dressed up as a clown and trying to juggle when I felt afraid of something and dropped one. Suddenly the audience was gone and in its place was a door. So I went up and opened the door and behind it is a brick wall. For some reason I know that the wall isn’t real, but I’m scared all the same. I walk forward into the wall and it dissolves into a swirl of colors to the capital building. When I walk up the steps, though, it disappears into a wash of blue. I woke up at this point because the coffee was ready, but don’t you think that’s strange?”
“I suppose so.”
They had walked full circle around the park and Cecilia motioned for her sister to sit down on a bench facing a lake on the west edge of the lot. Phoebe sat down and remained quiet. Cecilia smiled at her sister and put her hand gently on her bulging stomach.
“Have you had any dreams, lately?”
“Only one that I can remember.”
“What was it?”
Phoebe gathered her thoughts. She watched a bumblebee rest on a flower and then crawl gently into the center. Two squirrels scampered up a tree across the field where a group of teenagers were finishing a game of soccer.
“It’s night time usually and I find myself completely naked at the beach alone. Something inside of me keeps walking until I finally can’t and I sit down on the shore. Once I’m sitting down, I spot a pair of dark brown eyes peering out of the darkness by a cliff. I walk towards the space then a pair of hands grabs me. Then there are many of them and I feel warm and lost in the darkness. It goes on in that manner,” Phoebe added, blushing. “But I think you get the point.”
Her sister smiled. “You’re still young; you’ll find someone.”
“You think this is about finding a husband?”
“Well, it’s certainly an erotic dream.”
Phoebe couldn’t deny that fact. She glanced at her sister’s bulging belly and stood up.
“I’m going to go to the lake. I’ll come back in a few moments.”
Cecilia started to get up, but then remained where she was when Phoebe didn’t turn to acknowledge her following. Phoebe took a straight path like a ghost to the water. It thrashed against the shore in large foamy waves. She slowly sat down on the sand and stared at the lake. She felt numb and she didn’t know why. She blamed it on the outing since she had never particularly liked going out with her sister. They were always so different and as Cecilia was quite blunt in her analysis of dreams, Phoebe thought there was so much more hiding beneath the surface where she couldn’t see it.
A soccer ball rolled into the sand and slowed to a stop a little ways in front of her. She glanced at it lying motionless on the ground as the water reached forward to wash it like a cat washes its kitten. She stood up and started back for her sister, but not before noticing the boy who ran past her to get the ball. He glanced at her as he ran back. He smiled and kicked the ball in a rather show-offish way through the boughs of the trees and back onto the field. He ran up to Phoebe, and though she wanted nothing to do with him, she slowed down her pace.
“I hope that didn’t bother you,” he said.
She shook her head. “It was nowhere near me.”
“Name’s Keith,” he said. The boys from the field were yelling at him to quickly join back in while the other team darted between their opponents trying to take advantage of their missing player. She glanced at him but tried to seem uninterested. He was dripping with sweat, but he wasn’t breathing hard and he smiled at her as if he knew her for the longest time.
Phoebe remained silent. Somewhere she knew she had seen Keith before, but she couldn’t place it. His eyes were dark, his skin was tan, and he looked like every other young adult who would play soccer in the park. She switched her focus to the game.
“Perhaps you’d like to watch the game?” he offered.
“No thank you,” she said. She smiled back at him and then returned to where Cecilia was sitting watching their exchange from the bench. Cecilia smiled in a very motherly way, but by the time Phoebe had reunited with her sister, Keith was taken up with the game.
“Are you feeling all right?” Cecilia asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Who was that?”
Phoebe knew she had watched his excited expression and hoped for the best.
“No one,” she answered. Her sister’s expression fell.
“Oh well. It’s getting late, we’d better go home.”
Phoebe nodded and glanced back at the field. A pair of hands reached for the ball and then tossed it back onto the game. Perhaps, she mused, her dream was just a large game of soccer and she was the ball. She stopped as everything clicked into place. She smiled to herself and took Cecilia’s hand. Her sister was such a hopeless romantic at times.
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