Lucid Waking

Archive for July, 2008

Ideas

Ideas are best when freshly caught
Not salted or smoked or preserved
Not old and fermented in jelly jars
Like wine, that’s better with age.

No, ideas bloom with the excitement of capture
And wane when they’ve sat too long.
They’re better when you first look at them
Than when you go back to see how bad they’ve become.
But ideas are rare things these days
And though I’m still looking sharp
My traps are empty, the bait all gone
While I’m still sitting here, waiting.

Desert Treasure

Sifting through sand
To find what is lost:
Treasures unnumbered,
Riches beyond cost:
Silver more numerous
Than tons of gold,
Statues more beautiful
Than the eye can behold,
More color in carpets
Than the sky at dusk…
And all of it gone…
The ages turned it to dust.

The Dark Kingdom

        Thirteen years. She had walked thirteen years…for what? She stared at the closed door and then glanced back at the bottom of the dusty stairs. She took a deep breath and pushed open the large mahogany door.
        The room was painted white with gold and black accents. The dust on the furniture faded its color and cobwebs hung limply from the peeling painted ceiling. There in front of her, right above where the bed should have been if it was still in tact, was a tarnished silver mirror. Her stomach dropped at the anti-climax.
        “That’s it?” she found herself saying. “I’ve traveled how long, how far, to get to this worthless piece of metal?” She stopped herself from screaming in frustration.
        “You stupid girl, the best gifts are those that vanity overlooks.”
        She turned around towards the door, but no one was there. She looked again at the mirror and it clouded over: a dark purple with milky lavender clouds bubbling behinds its surface.
        “Tell me then, Mirror. If I followed the prophecy exactly, why do I not receive my award? Why am I not queen?”
        The mirror laughed. “You are; in your own rotten kingdom.”
        The sky outside got dark and the songbird’s chirping turned to the cawing of crows. The white paint melted off the walls to reveal solid stone. The tapestries of heroics turned to those of massacres and the subtle reds of innocence became oranges and blacks of carnage. It was still a beautiful place in its own right. The trees had a dark elegance to them and the walls were no longer peeling with paint. The dust had cleaned up and everything reflected the light from where the new candles were burning.
        “Well, though I have to play the part of the wicked witch, you are still my mirror. No amount of evil will distract me from that!”
        “As you wish.”
        She chuckled. “That’s right.” She started pacing around the room feeling the dark elegance of the new décor. She had nothing for angels and nymphs, anyway. The new wolves and dragons and gargoyles were much more her type of minions. She smiled sweetly and turned to the mirror.
        “We’re here for an eternity with nothing to do. Give me servants, give me power, give me a kingdom to be feared. If I am going to be the wicked witch, I have to be the most infamous and feared. That’s the problem with your punishment.”
        “It wasn’t a punishment, but a statement of fact. But it is done as you commanded.”
        She looked out the window and saw the maids and servants bustling about. She spotted the carriage garage over on the other end of the estate. She saw guests being escorted to her second dining room for supper or tea or whatever they dared eat or drink. She smiled again. She was starting to like this curse.
        “Mirror, mirror, on the wall…who is the fairest of them all?”
        The mirror was silent.
        “Fix that,” she snapped. She felt her facial structure changing and she fought her urge examine the magic taking place.
        “Now?”
        “You, your highness.”
        “Good,” she started out of the room. “I’m going to meet some guests for tea, don’t make me come back up here and take a candlestick to your face.”
        The mirror watched her leave and let down a heavy sigh of relief. “The fairest,” it laughed as loud as it dared, “for now.”

The War for Independence

        Samantha pulled the pin on the grenade and let it fly out the window to the city square below. She faced the damp wall again and waited for the boom of exploding tanks. She didn’t even flinch when it came. She yawned and checked her watch: 19:30.
        Suddenly there were footsteps on the stairs and by the time she could see a shadow of the intruder her gun was loaded and pointed straight at the first stair.
        “Samantha? It’s Jason.”
        She lowered her gun but kept silent.
        He poked his head above the edge of the floor, his gun next to his head and peeked out at her. She smiled and waved. He climbed the rest of the stairs and took a spot across from her away from waning light on the wall from the window.
        “How long have you been here?”
        “I lost track of time,” she said.
        “I just got an update, would you like to hear it? Or are you just going to keep dropping grenades until they figure out you’re here and shoot you?”
        “Go ahead and report.”
        “Apparently a compromise has been reached and they’re going to sign the papers officially tomorrow. But this is the last city standing that still belongs to them. Means two things for you: 1) they’re going to be fighting harder for this city and 2) if we capture this land before the compromise it’s null and we’ve won the war. The colonel is letting you decide.”
        “Me? He’s lost his mind.”
        “You’re the only woman left standing, Sam. Actually, I don’t know why he wants to ask you but he sent me on the fool’s mission of trying to find you.”
        “The grenade gave me away, huh?”
        “Just a bit. No one else uses primitive weapons like that anymore.”
        “Whatever. They’re effective.”
        Jason paused and leaned his head against the wall. Then he shifted his seat over and lay down on his stomach facing her.
        “There’s a sniper facing the window. If I’m going to get out, I’d better know soon one way or another.”
        “Do you have a sniper rifle on you?”
        “Of course not. Even if I did it won’t be the kind with bullets.”
        “You’re hopeless.”
        “They’re impractical. By the time the bullet hits your target, you’re dead.”
        “But you don’t have a five second recharging time.”
        “You only have to recharge if you let go of the trigger. Otherwise you sweep the area.”
        “You should let these guys know that.”
        “Only if you decide we should take the city and end this war with a complete victory.”
        “I think this is silly. We’re never going to get out of here alive and they’re going to give us hell if we continue fighting. The problem is, they’re going to shoot at us whether we fight back or not.”
        She paused and turned towards the window. She reached her hand out with her gun and shot across the way bridging the gap. Jason cringed at the noise and then the following silence. They waited for a laser, but nothing came across the gap.
        “Check now,” she said.
        “No one there.”
        She shrugged. “Colonists never win. Even if we let them have this city, what are they going to do? America would only have about 16 square miles of land.”
        Jason stood up.
        “Tell the General we’re going home and to stop shooting. Might as well let these boys live to be good upstanding citizens of England like they were before.”
        “Is that you’re final decision?”
        “Yes. And if you need me again, I’ll be here.”
        “We’ll come and get you when we leave. Good luck.”
        She let him walk back down the stairs and then watched him leave and sneak away down the street. She checked her watch, but she didn’t know why. She sighed and lay down under the window and watched the lighting in the room get darker and darker. She felt her eyes get heavy and she let them, keeping her ears open for the slightest noise even in sleep.

Tea and Onions

        Chamomile sat in her garden under the birch trees sipping chai tea whilst nibbling on a piece of raisin bread, buttered and then sprinkled lightly with brown sugar. It was her birthday and that morning she wanted to spend it alone. The evening she would spend like Jay Gatsby, but for the meantime, silence was ideal. She savored the birds chirping and the clinking of china and even the smell of the onions from her neighbor’s garden, which she hated.
        Anyone who named their child Chamomile was opting for her to love tea, and she stirred the liquid lovingly before taking another sip. Her pot was almost out and she rang her maid for another full one. But just as she made motion to ring the bell, her neighbor came out of the back door and started for the garden. Chamomile had memorized their usual routine: after talking for a good forty-five minutes, the neighbor would pull up first her peppermint and then her onions, taking great pains to wash off the dirt before putting them in the sunlight to reek. Chamomile cursed her sensitive nose and started to stand up.
        “Good morning, Miss Potts,” her neighbor said, smiling brightly.
        “Good morning, Mrs. Shirard.”
        “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”
        “Yes, quite.”
        “I’m so glad you invited us to your party tonight! You must be preparing for it soon, so I won’t keep you.”
        Thank God, Chamomile thought.
        “I was just going to pull up some onions for you to use if you want them. They’re very sweet and well, I didn’t know what else to get you for a gift.”
        “Oh no, Mrs. Shirard. I think my cook has enough onions, but thank you for the thought.” In actuality, there were no onions in any of the dishes Chamomile ordered; she made sure of it. “But if you’re looking for a gift…I don’t want to be rude, but a tea pot would be nice. Or flowers; I love flowers.”
        “I’m sorry I don’t have any,” Mrs. Shirard said looking like a child who had an accident and was caught for wrongdoing.
        “Well,” Chamomile stumbled over her words. “It’s just that I hate onions, Mrs. Shirard. I’m sure yours are wonderful, but I can’t stand the things!”
        Mrs. Shirard looked at her and then laughed. “Oh, you should have said sooner. I’ll see what I can get when I stop by town this afternoon.”
        “I meant no offense when—”
        "You silly girl, there was none taken. But you’d best get inside and get ready. I don’t want anything else to interrupt your relaxation.”
        “Thank you,” Chamomile stuttered, wondering how the woman knew so much and yet nothing about the fact that she hated onions.
        Mrs. Shirard smiled as Chamomile left and a servant came to take away the teapot and china. “What a silly little girl,” she said to herself. “This will be an interesting party.”

Silver Wings

        The last thing I remember before I lost my sight was silver wings. I had been an avid bird collector prior and had my own aviation house. But I had never seen a shine so vibrant in feathers that were not metal. There was never a bird alive with a silver sheen. But I don’t suppose you came calling to learn of my interests. You’re looking for the man responsible for the fire.
        But what if I told you it was a woman? Would you believe me? I know a man might be more likely, but… Well, you can’t really say she started it, but it will be the closest you get if you want to catch someone. I saw her sneak into the neighbor’s barn last night. Sarah Miller. She was a very pretty girl; it’s sort of a shame. I can’t really say what she was doing there, but I have reason to suspect she was cheating on her husband. That’s really another unfortunate story that you don’t want to hear. It’s much too tragic.
        Anyway, I was awake reading because I couldn’t sleep when I notice a bright light from my window and when I peaked out, I noticed the barn next door was on fire. I assumed it was an accident; a lantern could have easily been knocked over if no one was careful. Luckily, Masterson had managed to get his horses out in time, but they had a lot of trouble finishing off the fire. The flame had a sort of purpleish hue to it, but I only realized that after the event; we were much too panicked at the time to really notice such details.
        The fire had caught the branch of a nearby tree, which happened to be on my property. As the fire licked the side of the tree, it caught my aviation house. I did the only thing I could do: I started breaking the glass and I opened the door. Masterson’s boy tried to help me, but pretty soon the fire was too much for either of us. Suddenly another bird I had never seen before flew out of my house. It was bright silver with dark blue eyes that looked like an eagles. Because it passed in front of me, I didn’t notice the branch fall and swing forward to hit me in the nose. I’m pretty sure I passed out because I don’t remember anything after that.
        But isn’t it funny? No one has ever seen a bird like it anywhere. Maybe it was fate that I loose my eyesight. Everyone thinks that’s horrible, but it didn’t hurt and if I have any structural injuries I won’t see them. Maybe the bird was my vanity leaving me. I’ll never know, will I?
        Well regardless, you might want to question Sarah Miller about the fire. I heard that she managed to get off free, though she was present at the scene of the crime. I’m not saying she did it, but she might be able to tell you more.
        …Anything for the good of the order. Good night.

B

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Serenade by Enrico Toselli

        She found him where she thought he would be: on the bridge overlooking the small tributary to the Seine. She smiled and walked over to him. The way he was standing, he had been crying, but his composition was perfect and graceful. She followed his hand as it reached up to his forehead and then back to rest on the rail of the bridge. She placed her hand gently next to his and waited for him to notice her. She let him take his time. He turned and smiled, his eyes red with tears.
        “Bonjour,” he said. “What brings you here?”
        “To see an old friend,” she said. “What about you?”
        “The same,” he said. “But she hasn’t shown up.”
        “May I ask—” She knew better than to finish.
        “It’s all right,” he said. “Marguerite wasn’t much for promises.”
        “I’m sorry you promised to marry her.”
        He shrugged. “Who were you—?”
        She put her hand on his forearm. “I found him fairly quickly. Perhaps he would like to join me for croissants and tea?”
        “Bien sur, mon amie.” (Of course, my friend.)
        “There’s a beautiful café just a little while from here. Unfortunately, I don’t have my car, so we’ll have to walk. Is that all right?”
        “Yes.”
        She smiled and lent him her hand. He took it after a moments hesitation and started to walk with her through the small park. The magnolia trees were in bloom and the cherry trees’ pink blossoms rustled in the wind. The sky was an aquamarine blue without a fluffly cloud in sight. She sighed.
        “How long were you waiting there?”
        “About two hours.”
        “Je suis desolée.” (I’m sorry)
        “Ça va.” (It’s all right)
        She mentally kicked herself for her curiosity. “It’s a lovely day.”
        “The magnolias are very pretty.”
        “I was thinking of dying my hair that color. What do you think?”
        He laughed. “I like your hair the way it is.”
        Her heart jumped. “Ah well, my mother didn’t think it was a good idea either.”
        He laughed again.
        “How long have we known each other?” she asked. “And I never get to see you, anymore.”
        “For a long time,” he said. “As long as I can remember. And if you’d stop working at the opera in Paris, I might be able to see you once in a while here in Rouen.”
        “I can’t help it I like to play and the opera house has such a romantic atmosphere for an artist like me.”
        “You mean you can’t help practicing all the time so you’re good enough to work at the opera.”
        “That too.”
        The café was a small open street place with most of its tables outside and a small counter under the roof. They sat down and ordered two coffees. She set her elbow against the table.
        “You know, I’d be more than willing to let you stay with me in Paris.”
        He chuckled. “Don’t be silly. What would I do? If you’re a businessman in Paris, you work with tourists. Nothing else pays.”
        “There are lots of other places to be.”
        “I’ve thought about it before,” he said. “I don’t want to work in Paris. If I’m going to move, I’d go to Nice. It’s on the Mediterranean, it’s warm and right next to Italy is the best place for a romantic like me.”
        She blushed. “Speaking of romantic…”
        He raised an eyebrow. “I just got ditched by my fiancée when we were about to get married. I’m not sure you want to be on the subject.”
        “Look, Paul. I’ve known you forever and loved you just as long. Do you trust me?”
        He paused. “Yes, why?”
        “I want to get to know you again. More than friends; I think we’re past that.”
        “Give me time, Marie. I can’t…go running into a relationship now. Even with my best friend.”
        “Can you…” She paused as the waitress delivered their coffee. “I’m leaving for Paris again in two and a half weeks. Please let me know yes or no by then.”
        “I can do that.”
        “And don’t let that proposition scare you away until I leave.”
        “I’m not going anywhere until I finish this cup of coffee.”
        She breathed a small sigh of relief. “Well, now that that’s off my chest, momentarily, how’s Rouen been without me?”

(Listen to it. Please forgive the chirping birds and pretend you’re at Ravinia.)