I hope they're still awesome...

ODE TO A RACK



I met Gillian Anderson’s magnificent breasts
in roughly 1999. She was attached to them,
of course. Otherwise, that would just be weird.
But… her breasts.
They were a work of art.

Holy among His creation.
And she was wearing one of those absurd mesh tops
that everyone wore back then
(except for me—I’m ugly; no one wants to see that)
which only allowed me, a head and a half taller
than her, unprecedented access. As it were.
It was revelatory--like seeing the face of God.

One of my friends stole her water bottle
because it’d touched her lips.

Spring was so confusing...

They’d found a body in the garden. Muriel was sure that was important, but she couldn’t remember why. They asked questions, of course. But she couldn’t fathom why the body had been buried between the rose bushes, or, really, of what consequence it was. There were roses, there were flowering trees, bushes that gave off some kind of fruit, and a body. In the garden. Why all the fuss? And the men with their big shoes, trampling her grass, digging up her flowers. Harold’d have something to say about it, when he got home. Eventually. He’d been gone so long.

Things happened differently then...

On murky dark spring days when the ground is soft and saturated like a sponge smoothing a spinning clay pot, I wish I could stack those days, end to end. A summer evening at twilight, with the fireflies winking in the yard, a brisk October Saturday where I get up early, sit in the upscale coffee shop and watch the gold red leaves bouncing in the breeze, a warm clumping snow at night, and the blooming of the azaleas they all had in their front yards back then. Back when those things happened. The good days. Like dominos, they fell.

Every year it comes...

The Solstice. The longest and darkest day of the year. The earth sleeps and dreams in the cold and night, renewing herself in preparation of the coming toils the summer and spring will bring. She does it willingly, though. It is her gift to all the children she cradles so lovingly to her flesh. The children also sleep and dream of warmer days, waiting for life to begin again. They move slowly through the cold, in a dream haze. Blood slows as they lose their way in the darkness, they cling to trust in the Earth that spring will come.

Lady Moon still weeps...

Atira, Atira, why have you gone? This was the chant they called up to the Moon. She had stolen away the mermaid Atira, to keep her company during the day. The sisters sang, all night long, demanding Atira's return, but the Moon always said no, that the sea princess would come to no harm, so the sisters should hush their repeating calls and sighs, Atira would not be returned to them. Why have you gone, they would still cry, wailing at the Lady Moon's silver face. Atira, herself, liked the sky, but missed the sea. No one bothered to ask.

He liked history...

Zeb had been looking forward to this part of the Smithsonian since last night. In fact, he had been awake until well after two, tossing and turning with excitement in the creaky bed to the roadside motel. His grandfather had been like that, the night before Disney World. I was tired but knew he would not tolerate his great grandmother holding him back from seeing the newly recovered Mars Rover. I had been so young when it's battery had wound down on Mars' surface, and I had bee sad. Now, here it was, a venerated, repaired museum attraction, with fans.

It was safer that way...

The bagel of fortune had passed through the Wicker family for ten generations. And each generation had been more successful than the last, but only in the bagel-making profession. Cousin Merle had attempted to get into pizza-making, and in the late sixties, Uncle Willomar had tried to escape a life of dough and early morning breakfast crushes by going into investment banking. But that ended disastrously with charges of embezzlement and pony schemes. And so Ben, the youngest, gave in and made his fortune in bagels early, then retired to Florida for golf and booze at thirty-five.

It was all part of the plan...

In another four days the clones would be ripe, and my plans would be set into motion. It'd been years in the making; the careful tending of the DNA, the years spent perfecting the nutrient auger, and a lifetime of dreaming and anticipation. And in four days, the clones would wake, their minds already filled with everything I would have them know to complete their mission, no more, and no less. Four days. Nothing to do until then but wait. But in 95 hours, they'd rise forth to aid me in my quest to hit all the Black Friday sales.

They all loved the prince so much...

You're beautiful, but you're empty. No one could die for you. So my children's book told me. The Little Prince, by some annoying French person. Because I knew, even as a tiny thing, that this was not how life worked. the would belonged to the pretty but vapid. Substance only counted if it was in a beautiful package. The Paris Hiltons and Lois Lanes were who the world was built for, not someone like me. I was not empty, but no one would dare die for me. My wrapper is wrong. I am not beautiful, and so, I don't matter.

Sad, sad songs...

DEATH

The sea glittered gold and white under the clear sky and full moon. The waters were calm and quiet except for the mourning song that rose and fell with the waves. The Sisters of the sea had lost one of their order, and so the remaining Sisters sang and wept, a long harmonious chant over the drone of the waves. They cradled her body as it turned to foam. From salt ye were made, to salt ye shall return, they sang, recalling the fate of all merkind. And at dawn they were gone, leaving nothing but the memory of song.