"Encomium"

O dearest, the northern star in my sky that leads me home
Merciful consort who offers me safe passage and clemency when, perhaps,
I deserve none, for I am the fool of fools on my best of days. You never
Cease to amaze me with your grace, and how my soul yearns for its kindred
Spirit -- to whom it will write, sing, and bathe in heartfelt praise! When my eyes look upon you They refuse all others, for your splendor blinds them so.

O dearest, the surest hint of compassion in a world wrought with malevolence
Brought upon by greed, ego and insecurities... I wonder when you'll grow tired of my
Company, of my praise, and I dread at times the fantasy of taking you into my arms at the cost
Of a reality in which you will need to spread your wings, leaving me to my own
Devices (which are few and insufficient), left to wither as even the most enduring flower wilts
Come the final dawn of winter.

I, the fool of all fools, unyielding to caution's warning, must admit to having
A mighty lust for all that you offer. I've eyes that wish only to peer into your own,
First and final breaths that wish only to bookend words of love and admiration
In your name, and a heart that desires to beat only when you are near -- for
When you arrive I am born again like a Phoenix from the ashes, and when you are
Gone I am rendered inert, a defunct cell that has lost his purpose and been
Ordered to decay though, in its own mind, there is still much left to offer.

O dearest, I pray for warmer days and cooler nights, that while the sun smiles upon us
We can lay under cerulean skies, and when the moon glows we can rest by fire's side
With only each other, perhaps a bottle of wine. We could listen to music, or I could sing
To you, we could kiss tenderly or make love passionately, as if our first day together
Was our final. I couldn't promise you what I might one day have, but I would readily
Bequeath all I'd come to earn, from valueless to most precious.

O dearest, how I clamor for the partnership of our creative minds. How you so
Easily invoke the best in me, however deep it lurks -- not wanting, by normal means,
To be cohered nor disturbed, nor awoken from its slumber. It has never been as good to
Me as it is to you, and at times I must admit jealousy of your mastery over a gift I have
Since birth owned, never knowing how to conjure. It is true, you are my Muse, and I
Your plaintive servant, who awaits your word with a longing so strong as to be fervent.

I, the fool of fools, have probably made an error in writing this encomium that must,
Surely, cause you to look at me in terror. Alas, I would feel remiss were I to refuse
The urge -- this nearly insatiable need -- to tell you such things. You are my cynosure,
The inspiration whom speaks not just to my art, but to my soul and my heart, and with
These words I aim to win your favor, even if I find myself a friend in failure,  for, as my
Epitaph some day shall read, "I would rather be remembered as the fool who cared too
Much, than as the fool who cared not at all".

O dearest, were I your fool of fools, to see that you are always loved, appreciated, and
Treated as an equal would be my most treasured victory.

Terror Management Theory

Ernest offered his best attempts to keep up with Lucinda's seemingly sporadic to-and-fro, thinking that he might outwit her and cut her off once she got to... well, wherever she planned to settle. In five minutes' time she had darted, zipped and stormed from the bathroom to their closet, to the far end of the bedroom and back to the bathroom. There had been other stops in between, of course, but far be it from me to remember them all.

Emotions -- especially those that were particularly strong -- could make a person step out of their front door and turn up in some city they'd never seen before. There is rarely anything coherent or reasonable when such a force is at play.

Lucinda made occasional stops at the bed, upon which sat her hand-me-down Carry All, into which she stuffed clothes and random knickknacks she had felt the urge to salvage. The antiquated luggage had been willed to her upon her Mother's death ten years prior. The IRS had seized almost everything else. It was mauve, maybe maroon (depending on the light one happened to view it under, and taking into consideration any hairs one felt needed to be split), and was peppered with embroidered flowers of varying genus. Stitched into the bag, between two flowers, read: "Where Ever You Are, You Could Probably Be Some Where Better". The saying, its origin unknown, was in danger of becoming a family motto.

Ernest, stubborn fool that he was, would arrive at the bag hot on her heels. With each pass he would remove an article and place it where it once belonged, hoping to begrudge Lucinda of the quick and easy getaway for which she clearly aspired. Not thinking, she would play the game and try to abscond with said item on her next pass. Like their marriage, this proved to be an exercise in futility on both of their parts.

"Honey Deeeeew," Ernest lamented. "You're being silly. Help me put all of this stuff back where it belongs."

Lucinda, on her nth trip to her writing desk, removed a photo album. On the cover where once read "Lasting Memories", faded and weathered, now read -- simply -- "L      Me or   ". There was nothing significant, so far as I know, to be discerned from the script that managed to remain. "What about these?" Lucinda asked, holding the album open and directed at Ernest, flipping through the pages. There were pictures of summer picnics, trips to the park with their daughter, and so on. "Is this just 'stuff'?" She slammed the album closed, tucked it under one arm and took off for her armoire.

Ernest rolled his eyes, gave out a massive sigh that caused his shoulders to slump as if the act caused him to deflate. "My Little Latke -- Darling -- can you just be reasonable for a moment?"

Lucinda, having grabbed the heaviest bottle of perfume the armoire had to offer (with the intent on placing it in her Carry All) reacted as reasonably as the moment would allow. Without hesitation, and without any eyelashes batted, she lobbed the glass chalice at Ernest. With an inspiringly beautiful chime it connected with Ernest's forehead, sending him to the floor.

Ernest laid there, prostrate on the tasteful berber carpet, his eyes helplessly scanning the ceiling.

"Mommy..." a whimper from the doorway called out.

Lucinda, almost instantly returning to her senses at the meek siren song, turned to face the entrance to the bedroom. Standing in the hallway, peeking nervously around the door jamb, was the seven year old fruit of Lucinda's loins.

"Gretchen, baby..." Lucinda said in a soft, compassionate tone.

At the mention of her name, Ernest, too, came back to his senses. He allowed his head to roll to the left and, upon spotting his timid daughter, smiled.

Lucinda refused eye contact with the other two, hung her head ashamedly, and shuffled to her Carry All. She picked the perfume bottle up off of the ground and placed it in the bag with everything Ernest had yet to remove. She zipped the luggage up then looked to her daughter. "Did you pack your things?"

Gretchen nodded.

"And you're dressed?"

Again she nodded, a coy smile stretching across her face.

Ernest, still flat and immobile, gestured for his daughter to enter the room. "Let's see how you did."

Gretchen looked at the floor, blushing.

"Don't be shy, my Little Pot Pie. Show Mommy and Daddy your ensemble."

Imbued with confidence and a devil may care attitude, Gretchen hopped into the room. She had covered her frame with a green raincoat, purple tee shirt, orange pants, and mix-matched socks. They knew the socks didn't match as she had forgotten to put a shoe on her left foot, though had she remembered it would have (more than likely) shared nothing in common with the Puddle Skipper that covered her right foot.

"Very lovely, darling," said Lucinda.

Wrought with pride, having dressed herself for the first time, Gretchen spun around as if she were a super model wearing a one-of-a-kind evening dress by the best designer Italy had to offer.

Ernest looked on now with sad eyes. "You're growing up, Buttercup."

Lucinda looked down at her lame husband, scorn settling back onto her brow. "You say that as if it's a bad thing."

Gretchen looked at her father, noticing the trail of blood that ran from his forehead. She frowned, and her eyes grew wide. "Mommy, is Daddy broken?"

Lucinda removed her Carry All from the bed and joined Gretchen, taking her by the hand. She paused, turning to take one last look at Ernest. "Yes." She said plaintively. "Yes, I'm afraid he is."

Lucinda, with Gretchen in tow, disappeared into the hallway. Ernest listened as their footsteps trailed off into the foyer, then out onto the front porch. Not long after he heard nothing at all. He looked back at the ceiling, too dazed to notice the blood trail had made its way into the tear duct of his right eye.

He wondered how many speckles there were on the ceiling.

O Muse!

Let it be said, O Muse of mine,

That long have I searched for your presence

In each dusted book, and each bottle of wine

And your favor, how it evaded and left me to pine,

'Tis a long, cold winter, O Muse of mine

    But might the summer sun shine

And the birds share their song

A world without you, O Muse of mine,

Is a world in which I cannot -- undeniably -- belong

    O Muse! O the Angels in Heaven above!

What grand deed must I fulfill

That might win me your love?

O Muse! Might you hold me

And cradle my frame

Do the same with my mind

I will promise no less

Than to respond in kind

    Alas, O Muse of mine, I am foolish at best

All these wishes and requests

Would be best put to rest

    I've my life and You've yours

I'll abandon all hope 

As I've done countless times before

Turning blind eye to the sun

For, O Muse of mine, it may shine ne'er more

The Tumult in The Ash

Henrietta lay prostrate on the floor of the cramped bunker, her eyes blinking a desperate, incoherent plea in Morse code. The heat was suffocating, and the ground was littered with scattered debris that had arrived in chunks of varying size once the second detonation had blown out the windows. Shards of glass stuck to Henrietta's skin like confetti squares; made their homes amongst flecks of dirt, and dried rivulets of an indistinguishable source.

It had been hours since the last shock wave left her swimming in her own head, sounds muffled as if she were thousands of feet below the Atlantic. Even the faint, dwindling light of the oil lamp nestled in the corner burnt her eyes as if she had opened them for the first time. Her bones shook to their very foundation, gently, and only enough as to leave her feeling numb.

She slowly moved her eyes in the direction of a blown out window. It was getting dark. She wondered if it was an illusion caused by the ash. She was hungry.

                     * * *

Henrietta found the strength to sit up, though it took a few moments until she could manage any semblance of stability. She began dusting herself of debris. A chill crept in from the shattered windows and met her flesh. She assumed that it was nighttime -- early morning perhaps. The absence of singing birds made it difficult to know.

She garnered her strength, and made it onto her feet. She wavered in position for a moment then ventured taking a step with her right foot. It was a small step, met with uncertainty, but it proved capable. Inch-by-inch, teetering as she went, she began to ascend what remained of the stairs.

                      * * *

A gentle breeze ran through the city streets, pushing the curtain of smoke as it traveled west. Henrietta could see the remnants of East 52nd street, though she could recognize none of it. Buildings big and small had been reduced to modest, uniform piles of smoldering brick and mortar. Paint had been stripped from the advertisements that once crowded the skyline, wood frames blistered and popped, revealing the sunken crevices beneath them.

The silence was oppressive, and in hearing nothing her mind manifested a choir of a locusts. They sang continuously, and miles away. She couldn't decide if their song alluded to life, or warned of death. She felt best not to trace its origin. Instead, she followed the fleeing vapor as it went deeper into the city.

                      * * *

As the smoke pushed forwards, Henrietta stayed on its tail. She would stop every so often to look upon empty cars, burst hydrants, and all other manner of things affected by the chaos. She had become numb to it, distanced herself through not conscious intent, and found it all very strange. Even still, it was unmoving. It felt very... alien.

With one last breath the wind cast away the last trace of the chalky veil, revealing the front of the Public Library, which, itself, stood as only two incomplete walls. No doubt it had taken a great deal of punishment in the initial wave of attacks. She had only come to recognize it by the miraculously untouched statue that stood before the entryway.

It was a gaudy piece of metalwork -- an example of an all-too-common freeform expression that lined almost every street in Big City America. It was meant to resemble a dozen pages being flipped, suspended in time, but Henrietta always thought it looked as though giant French fries were spilling onto the concrete from above.

The public remained very much split on the effectiveness of the piece, back when there had been a "public" of which to speak. She couldn't help but find herself attracted to it in that instance, however; it, too, was very alien. She sat at its base, and ran her fingers across its mildly tarnished surface.

The calm of the cicada choir faded, yielding to more explosions in the distance. They made their way closer, growing louder and more guttural. Henrietta grabbed hold of a metallic rim, seeking comfort in the one-sided embrace.

As she sat there, arms extended and crossed, her face pressed against the monolith, contempt grew in her heart. She would not be buried in the family plot, or in any plot for that matter. She would not earn her doctorate in Inter-species Linguistics, and therefore never get a grant in order to communicate with Dolphins. She would never find Atlantis, nor would she see the bottom of the ocean; never be lauded as a hero or a pioneer. She would never hear the pitter-patter of her children as they ran through the living room she'd always imagined having, lined with wood paneling and brass trimmings.

No. No, should some intelligent life ever descend unto the Earth, they would find her remains -- crumpled, clinging desperately to that fucking statue. Then they would find her shelter, and wonder to themselves what possessed her into leaving. She wouldn't even be able to explain herself to them. Even in that moment, alive as she was, she couldn't find the words.

     Even still, should some super race descend from the Heavens to find her remains, at least she hadn’t joined the rest of the fools seeking shelter inside of churches, mosques, or synagogues. Surely that would win her a small modicum of good will.

Maxwell and The Piecemeal Rooster

Maxwell sat with his back against the eastern wall of his living room. In his lap sat pieces of metal and other piecemeal trinkets, scattered and varied, and he attempted to arrange them in a meaningful way. He told himself he was working on something important, but really he was just tinkering. All he did these days was tinker. It kept him pre-occupied, and though his creations amounted to nothing more than monuments to his wasted time, he assured himself they bore more importance than that.

He never quite believed it, but he could hardly fault himself for trying.

Maxwell spoke when no one was around, as it was hard to feel ignored or forgotten that way. He could always hear his voice – his words that, too, bore little consequence in the grand scheme of things. Admittedly, Maxwell held only the most vague of interests in what he had to say. He'd already heard it all before, and knew every word as if it had sprung from his own mind only moments prior.

It wasn't until late into the evening that Maxwell completed his most recent work. It stood four inches from the ground, and held an awkward gaze with two differently colored buttons for eyes. It looked, as near as he could figure it, like a rooster. Only instead of feathers, it was covered in a plumage of silver paperclips. You had to squint in order to see the scotch-tape that held them all together, but even then Maxwell could not have cared less. It wasn't for showing off, any way.

Maxwell sat the rooster on a nearby hutch then backed away and stared at it with great scrutiny, almost expectantly. There, on the hutch, the sculpture sat still as could be. It looked into Maxwell's weary eyes, which themselves were brown and sad. They looked as if they desperately searched for the faintest sign of meaning in everything they saw.

Maxwell slowly melted back onto the floor, his gaze never breaking away from the rooster. He fell asleep in that position.

The next day, Maxwell woke to see the rooster staring down at him. It cocked its head curiously, and blinked several times. Maxwell, for lack of a better idea, mimicked the rooster's behavior. This, of course, caused the small aluminum bird to step in his direction. And so it did, to the very edge of the hutch, looking down at the ground as if to wager with it self whether or not to attempt jumping to the Berber carpet below. The rooster decided against it, and looked up lovingly at Maxwell with its mostly empty eyes.

Maxwell rose to his feet and took the rooster in his hands, coddling it as a mother would her baby. He sat back down in the corner, holding the rooster in his lap. It began to coo, and eventually the cooing formed words.

It told Maxwell everything he wanted to hear; every word of encouragement he felt could make his life seem worthwhile. It told him he was loved, missed and adored. It told him that all of his tinkering was adding up to something monumental. It told him that he was acting rightly, and that he always had, and that people were really drawn to that. Then, finally, it ended the pep talk by embracing his left thumb and index finger.

As the rooster cooed, Maxwell slowly forced his palms together, crushing and bending the little bird until it cooed no longer. He tossed the warped wire carcass across the room, where it landed atop a pile of other broken creations. He knew it was lying to him, and telling him only what he wanted to hear. It was, after all, a mechanical creation capable of performing only what it was designed to. Its words were empty, and they were words Maxwell had never even attempted to say to himself.

If he couldn't even muster the faith to think them himself, what good were the words coming from a rooster made of paperclips, buttons, and tape?