Sitting on top of rock, Moll was counting the number of moss spots she found while trying to distract herself from her current train of thoughts. It had been three days since her best friend Skye had died. Molly and Skye had just turned sixteen and they had made a list of things that they thought normal sixteen year old girls did; things like get a car, go shopping without your mom, and date a boy. They had always made lists now because Skye never knew if she would live.
When Skye was ten, she collapsed in the middle of doing a math problem in Mrs. Moris’s fourth grade class. After rushing her to the ER, they discovered a large tumor growing on Skye’s brain. Molly remembered her mom’s face when she came to collect Molly from school that afternoon. Her mom simply did not say anything as she took ahold of a crying molly. Molly had cried for nearly three hours before anyone would allow her mother to get her from school.
Her mother rushed to the hospital where they found Mr. and Mrs. O’Maley, Skye’s parents, standing in the waiting room. They looked terrified as they explained the situation to Moll’s mom, Emily. Molly wasn’t paying attention, she wouldn’t have understood any of it anyways. After o short while, Skye’s parents, Jeff and Suzy, bent down in front of Molly. Speaking softly, they told molly that Sky was very sick. Molly remembered simply nodding her head as they spoke, trying to swallow the tears she could feel coming. Molly thought about the look on their faces and the river of tears that had flowed from her eyes as they spoke to her that day. Jeff, Suzy and Emily wrapped their arms around Molly as she sobbed. How could this happen to Skye, was the only thing Molly remembered thinking. Jeff suggested that they take Molly to see Skye. Molly pulled away from them and grabbed Jeff’s hand and led him toward the elevator, which brought slight smiles to their faces.
“Room 308″, he told Molly, smiling down at the greatest friend his little Skye had ever known.
Molly thought about the long sterile halls of the hospital as she had walked to large elevator doors. She had stopped to look at her reflection in the doors. She stood only four feet nine with golden hair that curled at her shoulders and bright blue eyes that were blochy from crying. People used to tell her she look like an Alexander doll. Tears had stained her slightly tanned face. A doctor stopped next to her asked where she was headed.
“Room 308″, she had replied barely noticing him.
“Oh well that’s my floor. I will take you there/ Who are you visiting?” the nice doctor asked.
“My best friend Skye. She came here today. She fell in class,” Molly explained.
“I’m sorry. That must have been very frightening.”
“It was,” Molly said, mummbling slightly as the doors to the elevator opened.
“Usually we don’t let children roam around on their own but since you are coming to my floor and you know where you are going I don’t see that it is a problem.”
The ride seemed like an eternity to Molly. But the doctor stood next to her and decided to remain quiet since it seemed as though she didn’t feel like talking.
“He must see best friends come in everyday” though Molly to herself in the elevator. The elevator dinged as it reached the third floor. She and the doctor stepped out into another set of long sterile halls. He pointed to a hall that was on the right of the nurse’s station. He lead her to Skye’s room.
” Now, one thing before you go in,” he said, “she is probably frail, so be quiet as you go in.”
Molly nodded and turned to enter the room. The nurses watched quietly from their station and smiled as Molly slowly pushed open the large door and carefully closed it behind her.
Skye lay in the bed facing the window. Her brown hair lay in a mess on her pillow. Her skin was already getting pale. Molly walked over to her bed and tapped Skye on her hand. Skye turned to face her and the awful look in Skye’s green eyes frightened Molly so much she almost screamed, but didn’t, remembering what the doctor had said about being quiet.
“Hi.” Molly said, but Skye didn’t respond, only looked at Molly.
Molly was at loss for what to say now. Skye scooted over in her bed and molly climbed in. When they had sleep overs, they always slept in the same bed and it was comfortable for them. They hooked arms as they always did and fell asleep.
Emily, Jeff and Suzy stood in the waiting room for awhile half expecting Molly to return any minute. Finally, after an hour they went up to Skye’s room. When they opened the door, they stopped short of what they saw. Tears began falling from their eyes as they starred at their daughters. Molly father Kevin arrived just to see them standing there crying. The love that their daughters had for each other was an untouchable love.
“Can i Just leave her?” Emily and Kevin asked the nurses at the station. The nurses told them that they make special rules for best friends .
Molly clearly remembered every detail of that afternoon. She that of all of her memories, she cherished that one the most. It was Skye that had taught her what a best friend should be and how to truly love someone. Molly knew that no matter where she went in life or who she met, Skye would always be with her in her heart. Molly’s love for Skye was, and always will be, untouchable.

The end

 I went down to Denver this weekend with my mom to pick my brother up from the airport.  We stopped in Loveland to do some shopping and I asked her to stop by Barnes and Noble because I wanted to look for Joe Hill’s books “20th Century Ghosts”.  I found it, paid for it, and went on my way.

Later on, though, I got to looking at my reciept.  The words that caught my eye were the ones telling me that my cashiers name was Idris.  I got to thinking what an odd name Idris is.  I mean, it’s not one that you commonly hear anywhere.  In fact, I don’t think I had heard that name before looking at my reciept.

My mind began to wander and wonder.  Who was this Idris?  What kind of life does she lead?

Does she get off of work and go to a bar to hang out with girlfriends?  Maybe they sip margaritas, tell stories from their retail jobs, and check out any cute guys who might be at the bar.  On some occasions, she may even take a guy home.  Show him a good night, probably keep in contact for a couple weeks.

Or maybe she goes home to the one bedroom apartment she shares with her two cats: Twinkle and Mr. Sniffles.  She grabs a book of poems (maybe something like Robert Frost or E.E. Cummings) from her bookshelf and settles into her favorite chair.  A well-worn recliner that once belonged to her father (who died of a stroke two years ago, God bless his soul) and has a perfect area in the seat of the chair to curl up and read a book.  Maybe there’s even a mug of chai tea on the table next to her.

What if she’s not single?  She could be going out with somebody, engaged, or married.  Is the guy she’s with a good guy?  Does he treat her nice?  Or is he a complete asshole?  Abusive and loud.  It could be she comes home to the cries of “Goddammit, Idris!”.  She knows that she’s in a toxic relationship.  All her friends point it out to her, but he does have good days.  Idris hopes that as time passes those good days can increase, that maybe she can be the one to change him.  The bruises on her stomach, back, and legs prove otherwise.  At times it hurts to sit at all, but she continues her quest of helping him with his anger.

Does she have kids?  One boy or one girl.  Or maybe she has one cute little boy and a darling little girl.  The boy walks around in a cowboy hat and spurs, wanting to grow up to be a cowboy (even if the country song says “momma, don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys”).  The girl rolls her eyes at how immature her brother can be.  She has plans to be an artist.  In fact, the entire fridge is completely plastered with her most recent masterpieces.  Smiling stick figures standing under a sun, protected by trees that have branches and leaves that inexplicably form a perfect circle.

It’s amazing what one’s mind can do if it begins to wonder.

The firmness in my abdomen means I really have to go to the bathroom. My bladder being pressed between two boards is more the feeling, but I just sit straighter and keep typing. The light glares off the edges of every eyelash that dimly and blurrily rings my vision, and it catches off every spot on my glasses. A box of crayons sits beside me on the desk, face down and reproachful. It’s been neglected for months now. When the crayons sit out on the desk, the colors draw me. I feel like Aladdin and the lamp; they put off a glow of their own, and my eyes glaze over drinking in their beauty. It’s awe. It’s awe because I’m an artist.

Can’t say how I managed to suffocate the art though.

I pick one of the crayons up, and it melds to my hand. The turquoise blue is a golden retriever, tail wagging, tongue lolling from a doggy smile, ready to do my bidding at the slightest wish. I can make it do anything. I set him down and pick up the grey. It too is form fitted, and I pull the sheets of white computer paper toward me, poise the crayon above the sheet and see a shape in my head–moving, dancing, weaving to and fro. I gasp back, and the crayon is just a crayon–a stick of colored wax covered in paper.

I think of the paints in my room–how one drop of that red looks endless. The yellow is condensed sunlight, the blue is twilight sky captured with a butterfly net and bottled, selling for a buck ninety-seven at Wal-Mart. I think how the brushes would tremble with eagerness in my hand, like a virgin bride on her wedding night. I see the moving shape again. And it’s a bunch of who-knows-what chemicals and fake, discarded wig hair glued to a stick.

I sketch something frivolous and completely souless on a sheet of the white paper and place each crayon back in the box, saving the broken Golden Rod for last. Shut the lid with quiet cardboard sounds and toss it back to the desk, face down and weeping. I grab a book and go to pout, as if it’s the crayon’s fault that I can’t do anything right anymore.

They’re staring now, as I type on this black and white sheet of virtual paper. Every letter is perfectly spaced, and each l and e looks like every other l and e on the rest of the page. So this box, this stupid box of crayons, face down on the desk, is staring at me, tears in it’s eyes, and I’m half tempted to grab it and throw it across the room. After that, I’d probably shove the lamp down onto the ground, and sweep everything else on the desk off with an arm. I’d spin then, gold-shot shawl twirling, and kick the sofa behind me, throw the candle after the crayons and then just freeze. Maybe one more savage kick for the sofa, before I chase after the crayons laying over by the wall. Maybe one broke. They probably fell out of the box. I’d pick them up one by one, crying for some silly reason, and go back to the desk. Close out of everything, and carry the crayons back to my room, to set in a safe place on my bookcase or night stand.

They’re just waiting for the day the art comes back.
Haven’t the heart to tell them I killed it, rolling over in my sleep.

It was dark. There was no line between the black sky and the black land, and her headlights didn’t cut the glare nearly enough.

Her eyes burnt from the tears she’d shed not a half hour before. Nobody could cry forever, even if the heart felt it.

She drove alone, in a silent car. The radio had never worked for her, and she’d gone off and forgotten her disc-man at home. How very unfortunate.

So it was dark, her eyes burned, and she was alone.

It had been a going-away party, this reason for her driving two hours one way and driving home in the dark. It was a going-away party for a brother, and even as she pictured his face-and the faces of the other family members present, her burning eyes began to tear again.

So it was dark, her eyes burned, she was alone, and she was heartbroken.

Name me any more pitiable creature, and I will name you an impossibility.
She tried to sing herself a song, but the words wouldn’t come, so she began to spin stories from the air.

She began with herself, in the dark night, driving in a silent car with the exhaustion pulling at her like an ocean current. She straightened her arms against the wheel and leant her head against the chair. She closed her eyes most of the way, peering from between her eyelashes at the bug-splattered windshield. It was horribly dusty. It was a wonder she could see anything at all out that window. Another bug hit with a dull thud-a sound that always made her cringe- and left a yellow smudge. She tried to wash it away, forgetting that her car had no windshield fluid, and ended up just streaking the corpse across the screen.

He’d asked her what was hard about going home, she thought quickly to distract herself from the stench of death coasting through the vents from the smear her eyes tried to squint through. She said it was hard seeing what a family was like, then going home to a family that wasn’t one. She was rather ashamed, but she’d gone as she’d always done with those questions-fobbed him off with a lesser issue.

It wasn’t a lie, she justified.

It just wasn’t the main issue.

She let a different Voice ask her what the issue was.

“You already know”, she told Him.

“Tell me anyway,” He said. “Spin me a story from the air.”

“It was at writer’s camp, actually. A little camp nestled in the woods, where writers get together to enjoy writing, and enjoy writing together.”

“One activity was writing to music. Pieces with no words, or with unintelligible words played, and you wrote whatever it gave you. One song . . . whatever it was, it had a beat. Techno, maybe? The picture I got was something . . . different. Something my parents wouldn’t approve of. Just one snapshot of an image. Perhaps that’s why I didn’t tell him . . . it was-”

“Go on,” He said. “I’m not worried.”

“Sorry. Well . . . there’s this one part . . . this one area, right below the ribs, on the side, right above the hip bone . . . it’s flat. She was a belly-dancer, you see, this picture. And I saw her moving, dancing. Yes, it was sensual, it was sexual. I won’t deny it.

But I saw her own hand on that place. To me, it’s a more intimate place than a great many others. Her hand was dark, exotic, and she wore bangles.

Then. Oh, then. From inside the dancer I saw another woman uncurl. She reached her hand out, and when the music was the most intense, the dancer-woman closed her eyes and shuddered, the inner woman reached out her hand and placed it against the dancer-woman on her own skin. Only a thin little membrane, as easily burst as a bubble, separated the dancer from the . . . woman. The music began to unravel itself, and the inner woman glanced fearfully around, and began to draw away. The dancer’s eyes jerked open, her mouth split open a sliver, and the music stopped, just as the inner woman curled back in her little ball and went back to sleep.

Later, the dancer put back on her burka, and left, walking a step behind her husband, eyes on the ground.

For that one moment, sensually and seductively, in front of an audience, she’d found the woman that she couldn’t be often enough.

Then she’d curled back in, for her own protection.”

You have another, He asked.

Well . . . you were there, though. You know this already!

Tell me anyway, He said. Spin me a story from the air.

It’s hardly from the air. The day we were leaving, Savannah showed me something. These little ferns. Tiny little things, hardly something anyone would notice.

Watch this, she said, and ran one finger gently along the tips of the little fern.

The arms closed in, hugged themselves against the stem, almost immediately.

I was entranced, and between the two of us, we soon had the whole little area alive with movement, hugging and un-hugging.

When do they open up again, I asked her.

When they think we’re gone.

They did it for their own protection.

You have-
For their own protection . . .
Daughter, you have-
Her eyes gazed out the window, and she straightened.
Her eyes glazed over with angry tears. For my own protection, she said. I hadn’t time to take off the mask for the party, then put it on again before coming home. Two hours just wasn’t enough, so I had to keep it on in front of them, I had to draw in, and stay drawn, right in front of them. She bit a lip. They’d seen the inner woman, they’d known her for two weeks, and they didn’t even NOTICE! They didn’t notice she was gone, and that it was this little . . . burka covered, masked plant standing in front of them, pretending to joke!
Daughter-
They didn’t even notice! He wanted to know what hurt the worst. Well . . . I guess he’ll know now, won’t he? I-
WAIT! LISTEN TO ME!!
-can’t believe. I just can’t believe none of them caught it. I made it so obvious! It’s-
I’M RIGHT HERE
-like I was completely alone in there! Wearing this stupid mask-
I’M RIGHT HERE!
-drawn in like some little . . . turtle or something!
TALK TO ME, LITTLE TURTLE!!
Her tears began to fall, and she stiffened more against her seat.
For her own protection. For her own protection. She shook her head.
SPIN ME STORIES FROM THE AIR, LITTLE TURTLE!
I’m . . . I’m right here.

It was dark. Her eyes burned. She was alone. And she was heartbroken.
Name me any more pitiable creature, and I will name you an impossibility.

For who can be happy when a woman sleeps inside?

I can’t believe, today, that everything seems to be run by people in suits who sit in far-off, air-conditioned offices and make important, life-altering decisions about people and things they’ll never even see.  Why is it we even give power to these yacht-owning, $1000 suit wearing, would-be-eating-garbage-from-a-pail-if-their-mommy-and-daddy-weren’t-millionaires morons?  It’s almost as though we befoul our own T.V. dinners, then eat those same dinners while the suit-wearing, blank-faced golf gadflies watch and take notes.
And now that you mention it, who are these pasty specimens of the upper class, anyway, and why to they get to be in charge?  I’m sure there are people far better equipped to run things around here, and they’d do a far better job.  Take me, for example.  I’d be great at this.  Let the buck stop with me if you want things done right.  I’m no elitist.  I’m a very fair person.  I’d make damn sure everyone got an equal piece of the pie, and that pie would taste good, too.
Which is more than you can say for most of the pie around here.  Bullet-proof crust, syrupy filling, too much sugar.  It’s like people learned to make pie from the back of a Hostess package!  What ever happened to those flaky crusts that my grandmother used to make?  Or filling that actually tasted like fruit?  Or even had fruit in it?  You might as well be eating glazed cardboard half the time.
And honestly, you are.  Everything we eat can be reproduced by chemicals.  I once had a chemistry teacher who made something out of esters and ritz crackers that tasted exactly like the MacDonalds apple pie.  No joke.  My parents always said you are what you eat.  And I have no intention of degenerating into chemicals and crackers.  Gross.
It’s those stupid, money-grubbing techno-crats that cheapen our food.  Trying to save money so they can renew their subscriptions to the golf course while we sit back and mindlessly swallow what they shovel at us.  Canada has their boxing day, where bosses and employees switch positions for a day.  Sounds like just what the doctor ordered.

Okay. Start from the top. A 3 letter word for “youngster”. LAD. I think that works. And now down. 4 letter word for “Rhett’s hangout.” Huh? Oh well, moving on. Eight down. A 4 letter word for “Moon Goddess.” Let’s see if LUNA works. Eight across is a “racing circuit.” That’s definitely LAP. Fourteen across is Ms. Thurman.” A three letter word, starting with U, for “Ms. Thurman.” Who writes these? Seventeen across is a “doze.” How about NAP? That fits. Moving randomly now- Eighteen across is “Popeye’s Tattoo” That’s an anchor, right? Let’s look at some words that intercept it, just to be sure. Here are two easy ones which do. 12 and 16 down- “Sparta’s rival” and “flower containers.” ATHENS, and POTS, respectively. Those intercept “ANCHOR” alright. Moving on now, Twenty-three across. “ominous signs.” OMENS. Twenty-nine across-”squirrel food.” NUTS. Thirty-three across-”Fay’s role in ‘King Kong’.” What the hell? A 3 letter word for ”Fay’s role in ‘King Kong’?” Moving on. Sheesh. Twenty-six down is “cousin’s mother.” That’s AUNT. Fifty-four across- “foundry refuse”- SLAG. Slag metal. And now- Forty-one down- “stubborn one.” It could be MULE. What’s Forty-one across? “Soda Fountain Treats.” Blech. 48, 52, and 55 across are nice and short, though. 48-”function”-USE. 52-”rumor, perhaps.” Is it LIE? Seems sketchy. I’ll go back to nine down, “a Delhi nursemaid.” 4 letters. Ummm. Thirty-nine across is no better- “Coptacetic(hyphenated).” How could it be hyphenated? It’s only 3 letters long! I’ll calm down, do something nice. Like fifteen across- “like tin.” It’s 9 letters long. What does that even mean? “like tin?” Not so easy after all I guess. But wait! What’s this? Two down-       “Make ____ ____ for it.” Make A RUN for it. Hah. Three down- “kind of jockey.” 4 letters long, begins with D and ends in C.  I’ll come back for that. Twenty-four down- “bean sprouts bean.” Begins with M-U and is 4 letters long. Eh. Twenty-five down. “Sicily’s eruptor.” Why I know this I have no idea, but it’s ETNA. Mount Etna. That’s good, but what about Forty-seven down? “like waffles.” 4 letters, as usual, with the third one a fat “G” Man, this isn’t like scrabble at all.  This stupid crossword uses slang and proper nouns like they was going out of style. I think I’l re-read the comics for the Eighth time instead.

I wrote this one at camp and am wanting to move it into a new draft, but wanted some suggestions before i did…

The Unforeseen Peak

An Ecuadorian guide brings me to the remote village

We hike for hours through green underbrush

Tall trees are umbrellas against the sun.

He walks in front of me, scythe flashing

as it cuts through ferns and young trees,

occasionally lopping off the head

of a lurking serpent.

The trees split after seven miles.

Sweat has left an oblong shadowy patch

between my shoulder blades.

The oil derrick no longer pumps.

Its rusted legs are toothpicks next to thick trees.

From its lowest cross-bar, the village women

hang their weaving looms, four to a side.

They pull dyed wool from gunny sacks

and meander it through, backward, forward,

making the cloth that will

cover their children’s bare backs.

The derrick wobbles in a swift breeze.

My sleeping bag sits,
Curled in on itself,
The opening raised up.
It’s shouting something.
Tomorrow, it’ll be stuffed in a trunk,
Then thrown in back of the stairs closet.
It’s safe warmth
The last on the list of
Things to think about in bored moments.
An orange blanket hangs out it’s mouth.
It’s vomiting something.
It looks so much like a puking caterpillar
I want to laugh.
But anything discarded
Cannot be funny.

Camera “A” and camera “B” people live for me.

Tom Jenkins and Alex Dvorak do what they do for me.

So does the State of New York, and the transportation system of London, England.

After Phylis steps onto the train,

I am their hope.

Me, and others like me.

They do what they do

So I can glance at their name on a screen.

I do what I do, partly for the music.

Partly for the Pirates of the Caribbean snapshots

That spit themselves onto the empty seats after the credits.

And partly so I can read peoples names.

And wonder why they do what they do.

I’m one of those

Who sticks around to watch the credits.

Here I am.

Plopped unceremoniously

Back into my own world again.

Like the marionette

Whose master drops the control

But catches it at the last moment

Before the audience uncovers the charade.

I pick my head back up

And try to continue where the play left off.

Postscript:
Am I the only one that noticed the freefall?