Fortuno's Fate

Toe nails painted red were still on his mind when Fortuno Panzani woke amongst tousled sheets.  He drew in a long breath, trying to cement the memory of her to the thoughts that raced along his synapses.  The ghost scent of her perfume clung to the hairs of his nose.  It was enough to enflame his resolve once again.

When the sun set later tonight, there would be no retreat.  The steps had been in motion throughout weeks of preparation and it had sometimes felt to Fortuno that he was climbing up a Ferris wheel, each step of the plan more precarious and apt to totter or sway if not taken from exactly the right angle.  So many variables could send the whole thing crashing to the ground with the slightest breeze. 

He rose from the cotton cocoon and left the warmth of his body to dissipate in the morning air.  It was early, just coming dawn by the looks of the newborn pink hovering over the horizon.  Fitting he thought, for after today he would become a new man and he was eager after all this time waiting and watching to slip into his new skin and to show her what he was capable of.  He could take care of her and give her a life free of hungry clients.  He would take her to the sea, surf and sand where she could dance for him alone in the dark, and only when it pleased her.  His lips curled upward in the virgin rays of sunshine slipping past the open drapes.  Perhaps she would let him paint those toes of hers? 

After tonight he would shed the shroud of the unlucky, he would leave the shadows that followed him through life—the near misses like being born with the umbilical cord around his neck, the shock of a swollen tongue when fed biscotti baked with almonds or nearly hanging himself when his necktie got caught in the cage of an old fashioned elevator when he was eight in Milan. 

No more.  It was time.  It was his season to bask in the realities of an easy life.  No more fighting for everything, only to worry it would be taken again once in his grasp.  That was over now.  He had had enough.

He stood at the steamy mirror, wiped it and looked at his reflection, then grabbed a new razor and the shaving gel.  The blue gel felt smooth as he rubbed it to a white froth over his face.  The shave would have to be impeccable, just as the rest of his appearance.  Starting over the left cheek, he reveled in the feeling of the blades annihilating the remnants of his outgrown whiskers.  Small brisk strokes cleaned his cheeks, chin, under his nose and then his neck.  He splashed water over his face and swiped it with a towel; he almost didn’t recognize himself when he looked in the mirror again.

His raven locks glistened in the bathroom light. The new haircut was in the latest style and gave him a sporty successful look.  The hairdresser had tutored him in the use of the sculpting mud to get the casual look he wanted, he had been an apt student watching every step.

Next it was his pre-chosen attire.  The suit was a charcoal Gino Valentino with a solid mauve shirt and steel blue tie underneath.  Everything, including the shoes, had been chosen by the attendant in the store because he didn’t trust his choices when it came to fashion.  He had no idea what colors went with what or if one pattern should accompany another.  These inadequacies were not lost on the attendant, who tisked here and there at Fortuno’s beginning selections.  He had been lucky they had not kicked him out of the extravagant boutique; no doubt it had been the color of the bills that had clouded their vision, and allowed his purchase.  Previously he had donned frayed jeans, converse sneakers and shirts without thought.  The only thing that mattered half the time was if they were clean and not too far out of style.  All that had changed now though.  Thanks to the death of his uncle Guido and the plans left in his uncle’s will. 

There could be no room for error.  He was stepping into the role of a lifetime and this was no school play.  He had tried to come up with every possible scenario so he would be ready if anything should happen.  It was just in his nature.  When one drew from things unlucky, unseen and easily forgotten, nothing could be left to chance.  Fonturo had to rethink everything from different angles to make sure fate’s hands could be bent if not bound.  He had even gone so far as to concentrate on his speech patterns and mannerisms adapting those he wanted from the top actors he admired and successful looking businessmen in the local cafes.  It was now or never.  There was nothing more he could see to, other than putting one foot in front of the other and getting it done.

He dressed quickly, enjoying the feel of the unfamiliar fabric on his frame.  His spine seemed to stretch for the sky with the weight of the suit.  Today would be his. 

On the street he walked to where he parked the rented silver Saab 9-3, jumped in and headed west, to the Cane Nero Café.  There was no way he could take his old run down Fiat 500.  He could definitely get used to a car like this.  Just like the rest of the metamorphosis, this car would be a welcome change as he sloughed the old and glistened in the new.

The warm air caressed Forturo as he pulled on the door to the little cafe.  The scent of pastry had him salivating before he made it to his seat.  Selecting the third table from the door Fortuno had the vantage point to watch the Mediobanca across the street.  This was not his first visit to the café.  He had been here several times before scouting who came and went, forecasting a suitable costume so he would not stand out.  The waitress, who had served him previously, came and took his breakfast order.

“You are here again are you?” She smiled. “It must be Mama’s Cornetto’s no?”

He flashed bleached teeth, “Si, you read my mind, and an espresso per favore.” 

Fortuno watched her hips sway as she turned on her heel and went to fill his order.  She came back with a steaming croissant and coffee, set it before him then took her leave again.  He ate thinking about events in the immediate past.

Uncle Guido had been a bachelor all of his life.  He prided himself on being a ladies’ man and was proud of the fact that he never let a woman tie him down to the confines of a wedding bed.  Although Fonturo listened to many stories of his exploits, Fonturo always wondered if there was a deeper reason why Guido never married.  Perhaps he had an unconscious dissatisfaction with himself and was loath to find it echoed in the eyes of a woman, so he moved on before the women knew him too well.  Or perhaps it was because he was such a private man. 

Fonturo looked down at his hands.  Yes, his uncle had been a man of secrets, and it was possible that Fonturo was the only person in the world at this moment who truly knew the extent of it. 

Guido had a fondness of keys, which developed into a fondness of lists, and finally a fond respect for what those keys and lists combined, held within them.  All that potential power.  And it was not until the will had been read and the envelope that held his uncle’s confessions had been handed over to him, still sealed, that Fonturo finally understood why his uncle had chosen such a solitary life. 

Guido had been employed as the bank manager at the very Mediobanca that Fonturo sat watching across the street in the café. His uncle had been a frequent patron in this very café, and spoke of it many times in his detailed letters to Fonturo in the confession.  He could have written one of the letters here at this table I am sitting at now.  Fonturo thought.  Guido told Fonturo how he had started his scheme with the bank deposit boxes.  Echoing how he had studied the intricacies of lock smithing necessary to copy and make the keys in the basement of his house after hours. 

He detailed that when someone signed out one of the deposit boxes, two keys were involved, one master that the manager or assistant manager of the bank use which turns to the left.  Then the patron is assigned another key that was assigned to the particular box purchased that turns to the right.  There is never any list of what the patron puts in the box.  Strict privacy is adhered to when a client is in the vault which meant that after the box was opened, the client was left alone to conduct their business.  And because only the patrons personal box was opened when a client went in the vault, cameras were not needed.

All Guido had to do was make sure he had a copy of both the master key and all the patron’s keys and then he would have access to all the boxes contents.  At first the going had been rough, the key cutting machine was loud and could be heard in his neighborhood at night so he had to construct a room and muffle the sound as best he could.  Then went through dozens and dozens of keys before he got the hang of it, but with practice he got better and faster at performing the task.  Soon he was rifling through the contents of the most of the boxes.  Others could not be obtained because they had been purchased before his uncle had put his plan in motion.   

Guido had gone to work listing the contents of each of the boxes and who they belonged to along with the account numbers of the patrons.  This was just a peek at what was actually there because at any time the client could add or remove something from the box when he was not there or when he was with another client.  But he was kept abreast of such changes with the daily deposit box log that listed the comings and goings of clients and employees within the vault.  The lists his uncle kept were more of a suggestion of the contents. 

Guido had his fingers on deeds, bonds, contracts, photo negatives, birth certificates, money, rare jewels, passports, and living wills.  But what Fonturo’s uncle was most pleased to find were things like a second set of books, or the set of photos that would have been very uncomfortable to a certain individual in the municipal government.  Or tapes that had proven the infidelity of husbands or wives, and then there were the secret diaries.   These were things that had proven lucrative.  Once it was known that they had been seen and were in his possession. 

Apparently they had been quite happy to keep things quiet paying Guido for his silence.  As his uncle knew they would be, after all he knew how much these people had in their accounts and would never ask for more then what he thought they could afford.  He didn’t want to upset the applecart, only shift the apples his way a little.   

Now that Guido had passed, Fortuno had to get into the vault and take what he could before those that had been blackmailed by Guido heard word of his passing.  It was a simple case of getting in and out with the specifics of the last list that Guido had made.  The list that covered all the boxes of consequence.  This is what Guido would have done had time allowed him to retire. 

Armed with a letter drafted by Guido’s estate lawyer, Fortuno made an appointment to meet with the new acting management of the bank.  Under the façade guise of clearing out the remaining safety deposit boxes of his late uncle, Fortuno would clean house.  It was perfect.

Fortuno left some euros on the table and strode out of the café and across the street to the bank.

~~~::~~~

No one saw what happened until it was too late.  The object had been blocked by the sun and so many of them had been firmly focused on what was going on in front of them.  They had been like chattel engrossed in the daily grind.  But when they heard the roar and then the explosion, their eyes widened and panic ensued, even though many didn’t know what they were running from. 

The waitress came out of the Cane Nero Café to see what had happened.  Her ears ringing and her wrist was bloody when she touched her face.  She figured her face had been cut when the windows facing the street had blown in.  Screaming people ran for their lives as car alarms shrieked in a five block radius.

Down the street a silver car had been hit by something black and burnt.  It looked like it was made of a metal.  The top of the roof had been smashed in and had crumpled the frame up on both ends, so it almost looked like a giant had come and wrapped both ends of the car around what had come from the sky.  She could smell burning rubber and something that reminded her of cooking meat.  Sirens began to echo and grow closer. 

She put her hand to her head looking in the direction of the approaching wails.  Her head felt as though it would be the next thing to explode, her temples throbbed so hard that she was sure if someone was standing next to her they would see them doing so.

It was in the middle of that thought that she spotted the satchel.  Black leather that looked like it was recently new, only a scuff or two on one side.  She looked up and down the street to see if anyone was coming to claim ownership.  She was alone but wondered if she should pick it up or leave it for the officers on their way.  Finally curiosity won.  She opened the bag, and saw the money, jewels and papers inside.  She almost dropped it again.  Again she looked around to make sure no one was looking at her and saw what she had found.  Then a waitress no more; she took off running down the street.

Stolen Socks

I am wearing stolen socks.  Not because I haven’t any of my own, and not because they are an exact fit, only because they soothe my emptiness inside.  The owner of these socks I have robbed, will never miss them, they were tossed aside because of the hole in the toe of one.  I think they are perfect with this imperfection; it’s only an indication of wear and tear, something that defines us all.  They belong to my absent son.  I am amazed at how simple cotton can seem to fill the loneliness in my heart, as though it knows I need to feel closer to him, by any means necessary. 

I know it is only a pair of socks.  A pair he has left behind, unwanted.  But somehow knowing it once encompassed his flesh and warmed him makes all the difference in the world.  For I also at one time did the same.  The socks are much too big for me, the white fabric flops about my feet.  I smile; it seems like eons ago I was taking a black and white photo of his ten tiny toes to send with his birth announcement.  Yet my mind knows it was only mere years. 

When is it that a woman becomes a mother?  Is it at the point of conception, or when she comes to term?  I can’t help but wonder; it seems this is too simplistic.  After all, animals can conceive and birth yet not all of them stay to rear the offspring. 

Is it when she realizes that the life she has lived so far is no longer her own?  Is it by making the sacrifices needed:  staying up when they are sick, reading at bedtime, ensuring the essentials required?  Tending bumps, scrapes, broken hearts and dashed dreams.  Talking them through nightmares, picking them up from a party where they experience alcohol the first time, which is a nightmare of your own.  Then you remember you must have done something right because at least they called.

Or does a woman become a mother when she first realizes that this child, whom she would die for, will one day leave her for a life of their own?  That even though the child is of her, and she cares for them, the child is ultimately separate and must make his own way.  When she realizes that if she fights his battles for him she is robbing him of life experience, something he needs to progress and succeed in life. 

Is a mother born when the woman realizes that a little more each day, she must learn to let go?  No matter when her mother-ness is conceived I know her role is never over, the grip of her hands never fully relax until she draws her last breath.

The Fishermen's Choice

The fishermen woke early.  Dawn had not begun to punch her eye through the swirling sea mists, as the fishermen fumbled into clothes.  Their warm breath converged with the chilly air and danced about their lips as they tended to assigned tasks and breakfast chores.  Soon they were ready to gather up the last of the nets and head out to sea in the little wooden fishing boats.

Hopeful, they unfurled the sails and began their silent bargains with the sea gale gods.  Promising what they could for strong gentle winds, those that would see them to their destination without stirring the ocean into a tempest.

Even though they only experienced half of what they wanted they gave thanks for what they had received.  The day was sunny and warm and they gathered many fish from the sea.  There was much laughter amongst the men.   But while they were pulling up the last net of the day a strange occurrence happened.  Suddenly the winds came and with it the water began to grow and swell.  The men grew afraid because this was unlike anything they had ever experienced.  The skies were still blue with not a cloud to be seen and they could not understand why the ocean was acting so strangely.  It became worse and worse until the men feared their boats would capsize.  They rushed to unfurl the sail again so they could go on their way and leave the wind and the sea to their argument.

On the side of one of the little wooden fishing vessels a woman appeared, her body in the waves and her hands and arms holding on to the boat for dear life.  She spoke not a word but the men could see the fear in her blue eyes.  They were in shock of finding such a woman with them as she was not there a moment before and they wondered where she had come from.  Some men yelled to pull the woman from the sea and rescue her.  Others shouted that she was a siren from the deep and it was a trick of the scaled women.  They said they would surely die if they helped this creature. 

The wind howled and the waves grew as the men argued among themselves.  The boats began to drift apart from each other and soon the boat with the woman was alone.  As the waves grew, they began to break over the side where the woman was holding on.  Her weight pulled the edge closer to the water and it began to slosh in with an ever pressing speed.  Still she implored them with her eyes.  They knew a decision had to be made before they all died.  Either pull her in, or force her away. 

One man looked at the others and shook his head in disgust.  Then he grabbed the woman and began to haul her into the boat.  When the others saw what he was doing they too began to assist the woman.  As soon as she was in the boat she looked at the men and smiled.  Her long black hair and her strange clothes were soaked.  A fisherman offered her his coat to warm herself but she shook her head.  Then before their eyes the woman transformed into a Dolphin and jumped back into the sea, and when she did the waves and wind began to calm and the sea was again at peace.

The fishermen looked at each other knowing that no one else who hadn’t seen what they had experienced would believe their stories.  They agreed to tell the others that the woman had slipped off of the side of the boat before they could save her, and let that be the end of the story.

Day after day no matter when or where the fishermen who had saved the woman went they were successful in their catch and the boat would come back to shore with heaps of fish.  The villagers wondered about their great luck and consulted them for their secrets.  But no matter what they did they couldn’t reproduce the quantities the fishermen came back with.  This happened even when others would go out with the fishermen and fish alongside them.

What the fishermen or the villagers didn’t know was that she was confronting many fishermen of the world, testing humanity to see if it were worthy of the ocean and her bounty.  Sometimes she was met with kindness and she was pulled to safety, other times sadly it was not so, and these men didn’t know that their decisions and conduct weighed heavily for humanity.

One day the woman confronted a small fishing vessel, and like before the winds came and the brine water surged, tossing the small boat to and fro over the waves.  The men were fearful of the woman’s appearance out of seemingly nowhere and they thought her some sort of harmful ghost or sea waif come to claim them as a sacrifice for the fickle seas.  They tried to pry her fingers from the wood so they could toss her back to the brine where she had come from.  Surprised that she was indeed solid and warm, this did not deter them, so crazed by fright they were.  They could not pry her grip from the boat.  One man began to kick her hands and fingers to smash them into succumbing to her side of the boat.  It did not work. 

Finally another man took his fishing knife and brought it down upon the woman’s fingers just under the knuckles where her fingers were joined to the hand.  The frightened men were silenced by the sickening thud and then the sight of blood pouring forth into their boat.  This was no sea waif; this was no ghost of any kind.  Blood was life.  The shock cut through them like the knife cut through her. 

Before their eyes she began to transform and rise out of the sea.  She grew and grew until she was more than twenty feet above them.  Her black hair turning into writhing Moray Eels, while coral grew over her torso.  The men could see sea creatures peeking out of holes full of sea water.  Each leg began to grow opalescent scales and fins replaced where her feet had been.    

She held her hand before her as she screamed out her rage at what these men had done to her.  The sound was deafening and could be felt inside their bodies.  The sea became a huge roiling mass as angry as she.  The winds whipped at the men, pushing them this way and that.  Then the men watched as starfish limbs replaced her stolen fingers.  When she spoke, it was as loud as thunder claps, and the men had to shield their ears. 

“I have been testing you over the years to see if you are worthy of my bounty and if I should reward you with safe passage over my skirts.  Most of you humans have been severely lacking, but I searched and searched anyhow giving you the benefit of the doubt.  I wanted to fall in love with creatures such as you because in many ways you prove interesting and some have been compassionate.  With your actions today however, I can no longer look the other way.  You have proven to be dangerous infantile creatures with only selfish gain at the forefront of your consciousness. 

You have taken four things from me.  So I in turn will take four things from your future generations.  Those of you who have shown me compassion will still reap my bounty, those of you who chose to rape, or tried to destroy me, will feel my wrath. 

I will hide the fish in places you will not be able to reach, with your nets or with other means, and I will move their coral homes to places you cannot destroy them.   I will create Tsunami to cleanse your filth and dwellings from my skirts and force you to rethink your lack of respect.  I will release the storm sisters upon my face to dance their fury into colossal cyclones and hurricanes bringing fear into your hearts and those of your children.  They will wonder what they have done wrong to receive the fury, the barren seas, and wonder what they will do for food in the future, and I will whisper to them of you.  Lastly I will raise the levels of the ocean with the frozen fresh water and release ice to do battle with your ships in raging storms.  Many lives will be lost, and when they are they will swim down to join you in your watery prison. 

She raised her hand and the ocean swelled and surged tossing the men out of their boats and into the sea.

The Stamp Mosaics

In my home office, things started to disappear; a box of paper clips here, some stamps there.  Small things at first, nothing significant, but enough to be an inconvenience.  

It took me a while to notice.  It isn’t as though our office is immaculate but I have order where order is needed.  I once saw a picture of Albert Einstein’s office and I could not believe someone so brilliant could ever find his way in such a messy array of texts and papers.  Thankfully, for Albert and us, there is order in chaos.  Although the universe can be a random and bizarre place, planets behave a certain way, black holes behave another.  I wondered which of those we were like. 

Our office was not as bad as Albert’s, but it was not the tidy, efficient, sterile machine like my mother’s could be either.  She had everything in its place and it always gave an unlived in vibe.  Like some kind of tomb you had to tiptoe around.  It was purely functional, as though no ideas, no life or creativity had ever breathed within its walls. 

Our office, on the contrary, was much lived in.  Not a day went by that one of us was not in some way contributing to its character.  There were wooden bookshelves lining the walls in the back holding texts, paper and envelopes.  Storage shelves doubled as work surfaces and storage areas.  Plastic bins held extra cables, mice, power bars, keyboards and various other computer equipment.  Wires were everywhere but in a way that resembled tidiness.  A scanner in the corner, printer on a wooden shelf, and with the new flat screen monitors there was more desk space.

That is until my partner starts into his coin collection.  Then there are coins everywhere, q-tips and toothbrushes for cleaning, toothpicks for who knows what, small jars of ketchup and olive oil.  Reference books, although most of his reference work is done on the internet.  Binders upon binders stacked one on the other full of his centuries old booty. 

I liked to look at them too, some of them anyway.  The old faces and crests, the way I would feel when I thought that all that time ago these heavy circles would have sat in someone’s hand, rested in their pocket.  It was like touching history in an obscure way.

Perhaps that is why things began to disappear. 

I didn’t notice it right away, because I thought Russell had misplaced what I needed and he of course thought I had.  We had even gotten into some pretty intense fights over it. 

Stamps seemed to be the most popular.  We even tried to put them in different places to break the losing streak so to speak, though that didn’t work very well.  We thought perhaps we had forgotten the new hiding places but the old empty cardboard wrappers were staring us in the face. 

Then it seemed other things were being used.  There is no other way to say it.  We woke up one morning ready for a full day of work and there were staples all over the floor.  Not unspent staples like you find in the box and load the stapler with, but spent staples.  As if someone had pushed the stapler over and over and just left the bent staples all over the floor, like they had done it for the simple joy of the sound and feel of the stapler, or that they had not known what the stapler was for.

It got stranger and stranger as time went by.  Tape would be hanging from the ceiling; stamps would be stuck to our monitors in mosaic designs.  Rubber bands seemed shot from one area and sent to another.  It was almost like we were being invaded by childlike minds in the middle of the night.  Or at least intelligent ones, the mosaics proved that.

When I asked my son Zack about these occurrences I received looks of innocence, or looks that told me he was wondering if I was really serious and this was not some kind of joke.

We let it go for a while.  As we saw it there wasn’t much else we could do.  The mischief   only happened at night and there was never any noise for us to be woken from sleep.  We did stay up all night once and hid in the dark corners lest anything arose, but to our great disappointment nothing did.  So we just let it ride.  My curiosity was almost palatable.

That was until Russell began to lose things he had already sold on the internet.  He could no longer find one of his uncirculated ten dollar bills with the radar numbered serial numbers.  The oddities were no longer amusing.  Puzzling yes, but funny?  Not in the least. 

I thought that perhaps we didn’t see anything the night we stayed up because we were awake, or because we were too noisy.  Perhaps whatever was invading our office was aware of the fact and would not show due to the thought of retaliation of some kind.  Yes I was grasping at straws, but I could no longer sit back and do nothing.  My imagination was running away with me and until I had the answer to this dilemma, it would continue to do so. 

The more I thought about it the more I became convinced that we would have to find a way to see into the office while being asleep.  I decided after much thought, that the only way to do this was to set up web cameras or a video camera in places where they wouldn’t stand out, and record the night’s visitors.    It wasn’t as though we didn’t have the technology, and it would be a simple thing to do for anyone.  I only had to figure out the camera angles and then we would capture whatever was going on.

The first night didn’t produce much.  It turned out I was so excited about the prospect of finding out about what was going on that I could not sleep.  The next night proved to be better.  When Russell and I sat down to the computer to watch the nights events I am sure our jaws hung open. 

For there, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, sat a man.  Sort of.  He was little, about a foot and a half tall, thin and had big fox like ears on the top of his head amongst sparse tufts of hair.   He had huge owl like eyes over a small nose and just a hint of a mouth. Thin arms and legs were covered by a shirt and pants that were a patchwork of bits of fabric sewn in big blue stitches.  At first he just sat there as though he was thinking about what to do.  Then gradually he picked at things about the room as though he was trying to figure out what they were or what they were used for.   For a couple of hours he sat with a book upon his lap and I was amazed that he could read our language.  Russell was not impressed when he put a couple of coins in his pocket as he left. 

Where had this little man come from?  More importantly where had he gone?  Who was he and why was he in our house, messing with our things?  How long had he been here?

Days went by and the same kind of things would happen on camera.  Until one day our little man left something for Russell.  It was a drawing he had done of Russell at the computer working.  It was beautiful, done in pencil and was signed Onhim.  So he had a name.  I thought that perhaps the sketch was to make up for the coins he had taken earlier.  Russell had left a rather nasty note demanding their return.  Something I hadn’t encouraged, after all Onhim could step out of seemingly nowhere, who knows what else he was capable of.  By the picture drawn it also seemed as though he could be here in the room with us in the daylight although we couldn’t see him.  This was troubling.  I began to wonder just how much the stranger knew about us.  However I didn’t get the sense that our visitor was malevolent in anyway.  He seemed as curious about us as we were about him.

I began to leave things for our little night visitor.  It wasn’t hard now that I knew he was an artist of sorts.  I set up an easel in the corner of the room and left some paper, pencil crayons and charcoal pencils, and then later some paints.  The result was an amazing array of drawings and paintings.  Creatures that were not of this earth or this dimension, there were fairies with gossamer wings, goblins, what I took to be trolls and amazing elfin beings.  Each surrounded in woods and trees the likes I had never seen before.  Little people made of moss and lichen.  In some of the drawings it was as though they could simply walk out of the paper that held them. 

I left many notes for Onhim, encouraging his drawings, and asking questions about the creatures.  I loved to see what he would come up with day after day.  Onhim came through for Russell too.  Apparently on his side of things, that is to say, where Onhim spends most of his life, coins are quite abundant.  A little purple bag showed up on Russell’s desk one morning full of small gold coins each with a hole in the middle.  All previous discrepancies between the two were forgiven. 

I went to the thrift store to get some clothes for Onhim.  I felt so badly seeing him in tatters.  I found some blue Oshkosh overalls and a couple blue shirts to match.  I didn’t pick up any socks or shoes though.  Every time I had seen him he was barefoot so I thought this must be his preference.  Besides I didn’t think I could find anything small enough, not even in the children’s section. 

I laid these out on the stool in front of his easel.  I was very happy to see these gone the next morning, and a thank-you note left in its place. 

~~:: ~~::

I sit perched upon the end of the bed, watching as the couple drift deeper into slumber.  The one on the right is closer to REM sleep then the woman is.  Her mind seems to be fighting the inevitable waltz with her subconscious.

I am patient, knowing I will soon dine on the delicious creativity that their minds will indulge in.  I am content to let my mind wander over the scents of their sleeping bodies.  I try to identify the origin of each fragrance.   It is the perfume of silken sweat, spent orgasms, the open pores of resting skin which roll over my tongue, enticingly sweet flavors. 

There are others like me.  We are the night watchmen.  Silent and invisible to man’s eye, keeping each night uncluttered of unwanted, unneeded dreams.  While these beings rest and create stories within their minds the dreams draw energy from the dreamer and it is on this that we feed upon.    

The woman enjoys my drawings, even giving me tools so I can bring forth the images that I sometimes see dancing over the heads of these wondrous creatures, these humans.  Her enjoyment is biased however. Originally they came from her.  She is drawn to the images because her subconscious remembers them, and although it is not filtered into her conscious mind, the feeling of familiarity is strong.  It pulls her to them.

I am intrigued by this woman.  Her detailed dreams are vividly colored and her positivity bleeds through them with hints of fruit and nectar.  She would not be so kind and giving with me if she truly knew my role within her domain and my vampiric ways.  Feeding not on blood of the flesh, but on mists of the mind.  If she knew that the creaking wood floorboards in the middle of the night were not due to the temperature changes within the house, or the house settling, but rather signaling my otherwise silent presence.  She would withdraw my welcome, and try to find a way to bar my entry.

He, in his nightly slumber, becomes invisible and flies over the world in first class correcting the wrong doings of evil men.  With saber sword he slashes through flesh, coloring the world red so the innocent may flee.  I watch his violent bloodlust, knowing that it is his primitive brain that seeks such nourishment.  I relish in the taste of such images, they are hot spicy delights.  I devour them and in turn he, during waking hours, can walk the earth safely within society’s confines.  He will not feel the need to spill havoc onto those he loves, or bring chaos into the streets because he has released such things to us. 

Some have called us the night vultures, saying we feed on the garbage that filters through the psyche.  I say we are as necessary to these beings as water, for it is we who drink their secretions.  Unburdening them of unwanted painful memories, and emotions better off not felt.  We provide these services free of charge; expecting nothing in return, only our nightly meals which sustain us. 

We have been here in a symbiotic relationship with these creatures since Mother Earth conjured us to relieve her of the constant excessive energies these beings create and litter her skirts with, and in previous ages, this was enough.

Now we watchmen can no longer keep up with the extreme populations of these beings.  Over the last centuries their numbers have exploded, the latest technologies coming out of the most brilliant minds have humans living past ages meant for the balance of things.  There are not enough of us.  Even with our insatiable appetites the balance is tilting the scales, and Mother, in turn, has begun to clean house. 

Natural disasters, global warming, humans think they have the answers as to why these things are happening.  They don’t.  The truth is we can no longer keep up to them and the way they pollute.  Green house gases?  The true pollution is the violence and negativity these beings thrive on, Mother can no longer tolerate it and survive.  Something is going to have to give and lose the battle.  I can tell you now it will not be Mother, she is too important in the great scheme of things...

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Find Your Happiness

October 25^th, 2011 saw the release of

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Find Your Happiness.  I am thrilled to be counted as one of the contributors for this book.  You can find my story “The Choice”, on page 125.  This is the third book of the Chicken Soup for the Soul series that I have been fortunate enough to be included in.  The others were My Cat’s Life and Just for Preteens.   Please contact me if you are interested in personalized copies.

Nature's Child

Nature’s child

looked down upon

the Arctic in despair.

Lamenting on

melting lands

and disappearing ice.

She wondered

what to do with

Nanuk

Lord of the ice.

Where would

the old man in the

fur coat go

when there was no

more ice to

balance upon?

Then she knew

what must be done.

She called out to

the sea bear

and showed him

the land.

Picking up

big handfuls of soil

and rubbing it

into Pihoqahiak’s coat

she explained that he could

go to sea no longer.

He must remain

on the great rock

and mingle with

Silvertip if he and his

were to survive

the scars of man.

Isbjorn bowed low

to his princess

and watched

as she skipped

from his vision

and disappeared

into the Arctic mists.

Over at dVerse Poets, it is OpenLinkNight, I thought this one would tie in nicely.

The Laced Up Confessionals Part Eleven

I looked out the window today at the trees and could see from my vantage point that the boughs of some were swaying, and they almost seemed to be tickling the dark grey clouds.  I knew that with conditions like this, it was going to be a lively run.  Smiling I began to get my gear together and lace up.  By the time I was finished and looked out the window again, I was confronted with a downpour that had drops bouncing back up off of the road, and rivulets flowing down the hill. 

Perfect!  The last time I had run in the rain was way back in the end of May when I was in a running clinic and we were running along one of the main arteries in the city.  It was a hot day so it hadn’t mattered that I was getting drenched.  We had lots of fun as we slogged along, shoes squishing out their protest.  Today was going to be another of those days, one where people look at those of us on the streets and think that we are mad running in such weather.  But perhaps that is only because they have forgotten what it felt like when they were children dressed in their raincoats and boots, jumping in puddles and listening to the music the drops made on their hoods or umbrellas.  They have forgotten that juicy joy which comes from taking part in the simple things life gives to all of us.

I set out and I wonder if the glee of such a delicious moment is apparent on my face?  The cold drops have soaked me only slightly slower than a regular bathing shower.  Immediately the brim of my running hat is dripping and I am glad that it will be keeping the huge kisses of the clouds at bay, lest my contact lenses be sailing down the road a top the small rivers that steal pine needles and small stones with their current.

I am up the hill before I know it.  I wonder at how I got up it so fast, is it because I was focused on the drops and the wind littering golden leaves upon me, or perhaps because I am concentrating on being seen by the drivers more than ever today?  No longer focused on the heat and the little pains that sometimes plague me I am full of present and now.  I appreciate that which is before me and I am grateful for my health that allows me to get out and see and experience this. 

I pass the skate park where usually there are teens performing feats with both skateboards and bikes, that make the laws of gravity look like a child’s toy, and one that these wheeled wonders seem to have left in the confines of the crib’s they had grown out of long ago.  It is empty, slick and grey.  It looks lonesome and somehow lovesick for those young mavericks, who usually caress with sweat, skin and soles. 

Carrying on down to the half way point, I enjoy how alone I am on this trip.  It’s only myself and the steel shells of people coming from work who brave the streets, and every so often I am rewarded with a fresh splash of a puddle as one zips by.  Somehow it makes the whole experience all the more magical and meditative.  I have left my MP3 player at home, and I am totally immersed in experiencing the all of these moments. 

I focus on the hiss of the wet tires as they pass, I watch and run through rain chains dripping from the telephone wires above.  I listen and feel the slap flapping of my black running pants on my calves, the squelching of my shoes as every step is taken and spent, and the feel of my socks as the water makes them suction onto my toes.  (Which by the way is what I imagine vacuum packed sausages would be apt to feel, if they were capable.)  I know my cheeks are rosy, and probably match my raspberry colored top, which is a great color against the green and yellow of the background landscape.  I will, and have been seen.  I will need brighter colors come winter.

I finish up at the bottom of the hill and I am again grateful that the grip of my shoes didn’t let loose on the slick gravel and toss me on my behind.  No doubt an accident like that would leave me picking gravel out of road rash for weeks afterwards.  I had a coach once who did that very thing, although she was trail running at the time.  Came down a hill and tripped hit her cheek on a rock and the rest of the side of her face took gravel in depth.  A frightening bruise showed in the weeks afterwards, and since seeing and hearing her story, I am always reserved when it comes to steep hills.

I wrap it up at the crosswalk that marks the finish and think to myself that I am happy that I didn’t listen to the lazy girl that arises in me sometimes when facing the elements.  Even though I feel lazy at the start sometimes, I know that if I kick myself outside to just do it, I am always returning with a grin.

I survived the first of the rains that are part of living in rainforest area.  I know that this season will have much more in store as time moves on.  I am excited to see what emotions Fall will reveal.